by Joan Smith
“Just an old gray hacker I’ve had forever.”
Lady Gillian did not wait to be asked what she rode, but rushed on to volunteer the information. “My Penny is not a thoroughbred, either, though there’s good blood in her. Some Welsh pony, with a strain of Arabian. She’s only thirteen hands high, but she has the long, low, straight stride of a thoroughbred.”
Mrs. Searle interrupted this spiel long enough to offer her guest a glass of sherry.
“Could I have an ale instead?” Lady Gillian replied.
“I’m afraid I don’t have any.”
“Perhaps the servants have some in the kitchen. I’ll ask the butler,” she said, and hopped up from her chair.
Since Mrs. Searle was in charge of smoothing out the lady’s rough edges, she decided to begin her duties immediately. “Ale is not served to ladies in this house, Lady Gillian. Lord Southam sent you to me to polish your manners. Let us begin by taking the proper drink for a lady.”
“But I hate sherry!”
“A lady does not hate what is offered in the way of refreshment when she is a guest. If she fears the refreshment will actually make her ill, then she declines politely. She does not suggest an alternative. That is the hostess’s privilege.”
Gillie listened patiently. “What do you suggest, then?”
Mrs. Searle took a sip from her glass unconcernedly and said, “I suggest you wait till dinner, when wine will be served.”
Gillie frowned. She fidgeted a moment, glanced at the clock, and said, “We usually have dinner at six at home.”
“So I would assume. In the country one usually keeps country hours. I shall be serving at seven—a little early tonight, as I thought you might be peckish after your trip.”
“I am starved!”
“A lady is never starved. She is allowed to feel peckish—if she is asked.”
“I expect you and Miss Swann were great friends,” Gillie said with a scowl.
“Miss Swann? Who is that?”
“Did Rawl not tell you? It was Deborah’s idea to send me to you.”
“Deborah Swann! Good gracious, I haven’t heard that name for over a decade. We were at school together. Do you know Deborah Swann?”
“Know her? She lives only a mile away. She is Rawl’s fiancée. It was her idea to pack me off here, to get rid of me.” Gillie failed to notice that her hostess’s face had stiffened to stone. She rattled on, “They tried to match me up with Lord Stuyvesant, as if I’d marry that old rake. He’s at least thirty!”
“That old!” Mrs. Searle said in a chilly tone.
“It seems ancient to me, for I am only seventeen.”
“Time will rectify that. You are young to be looking about for a match yet,” Mrs. Searle said, though her quick mind was canvassing more interesting matters.
“I don’t want to get married. It is all Miss Swann’s idea. She won’t have Rawl till I am out of the house, you see. We are forever coming to cuffs. It is her horrid way of calling me missie that gets my back up, and acting as if she were my mother, only my mama was never so horrid. I hate her.”
“A young lady does not hate anyone, Lady Gillian,” she replied. Yet, if there were to be an exception to that rule, she would not hesitate to nominate Deborah Swann for the role. What a managing creature Deborah had been. And now she had nabbed Lord Southam! How could such a thing have happened?
Gillian crossed her arms and glared. “Then I am not a lady, because I hate Deborah Swann.”
“And she is actually engaged to your brother, you say. Formally engaged?” Mrs. Searle asked, wondering if it was only a straw in the wind.
“Yes, she has the ring and everything. She is forever at the house, poking about and complaining to the servants and Rawl, as if she were already married to him.”
Mrs. Searle digested this with no visible trace of her rancor. “I read some time ago that she was lady-in-waiting to the royal princesses.”
“When she is not complaining, she is boasting of that. And of course her father, who is a member of the cabinet, only they won’t let him have a portfolio. I wonder he doesn’t buy one, since he is supposed to be well greased.”
Lady Searle found a sudden interest in Miss Swann and did not discourage this line of complaints as she knew she ought. “As she is a near neighbor, I expect this match has been in the air since Deborah and your brother were youngsters.” It must have been arranged eons ago by the family. No sane man would willingly offer for Deborah Swann.
“Not at all. It only happened this past year, when the royal princesses sent her home. She is the bossy sort who must be ordering someone around, and since Effie and Alice and I were without a mother, she decided to take us in charge. She convinced Rawl that we had run wild, and now she is engaged to him, but she won’t marry him till I am out of the house. And that is why she sent me to you, to smarten me up so Stuyvesant will have me.”
“Why not London for a Season instead of here?”
“Miss Swann feels the moral climate there is not salubrious. I expect that means she’s afraid Rawl will slip the leash.”
Mrs. Searle realized she had been well and thoroughly taken in and was furious. That nice letter from Southam—probably dictated by Deborah Swann! They were using her, shoving this uncouth girl onto her, and she scarcely knew them. After all her plans and preparations, Lord Southam was not coming at all. An extremely troublesome and expensive dinner had been ordered—for this tomboy and her companion.
“Where is Miss Pittfield?” she asked. She determined on the spot that Miss Pittfield would take complete charge of Lady Gillian. As Southam and Deborah had pulled the wool over her eyes and got her agreement to the visit, she would make some nominal effort to smarten Lady Gillian up, but she would not have her whole life turned upside down to oblige Deborah Swann. Lord Southam was not the man she had taken him for if he had let himself be bullocked into an offer by that insufferable lady.
“She didn’t know whether she was supposed to eat with us.”
“Of course she will eat with us. She is your cousin, is she not?”
“A distant cousin. I’ll tell her,” Gillie said, and hopped up from her chair.
“We have servants in this house to perform errands, Lady Gillian. Pray sit down. And don’t jump up again until dinner is announced, if you please.” She took out all her annoyance on poor Gillie. “I can see why Deborah was displeased with your manners at any rate. You behave like a hoyden.”
Mrs. Searle watched as her guest’s boyish face tightened up like a fist. She held her breath, waiting for an outburst of stable language. “Yes, ma’am,” Gillie said, and resumed her seat, where she sat without speaking for five minutes, while Mrs. Searle summoned a servant and sent the message off to Miss Pittfield.
That dame had been awaiting her summons and came below immediately. “Will you have a glass of sherry, Miss Pittfield?” Mrs. Searle said, and till dinner was announced, such conversation as occurred was between the two older ladies, while Gillie tapped her fingers, pulled at her curls, and glanced at regular intervals at the clock.
Miss Pittfield corroborated what Gillie had already said in blunter terms. Lord Southam had no intention of coming personally to Bath. Mrs. Searle swallowed this monstrous news and behaved like a lady for the remainder of the evening, but a lady with a grievance. She would brook no impertinence from Lady Gillian, nor would she curtail her own normal pursuits one iota. She had been taken in, but she would not allow anyone to know just how high her hopes had flown.
There followed a few days of curt civility between the hostess and her guests. The guests were presented to Mrs. Searle’s callers. Gillie found very little amusement in doddering ladies and gentlemen in their thirties and forties. They were also taken to the Pump Room, but as horses were not allowed, Gillie screwed up her nose at the water and asked how soon they could leave. At least on the street one could see horses, even if one could not ride them. The city offered challenging riding, with hills all around.
/> At the end of a week Mrs. Searle had assimilated her anger and adjusted to the situation. She was saddled with a country bumpkin for six weeks, which was the established duration of the visit. At the end of that time she would be going to London, where she would enjoy the Season with Leonard’s aunt, Mrs. Louden. This annual visit was her major treat of the year and much anticipated. Meanwhile she decided to make the best of a bad situation and befriend Lady Gillian.
It was with this Christian thought in mind that she tapped at Gillie’s door. She waited to be asked in, but no voice answered her knock. The girl couldn’t be asleep. They had just returned from Milsom Street ten minutes before. She tapped again, more loudly. When still there was no reply, her vague worry escalated to fear. She turned the knob, fully expecting to see an empty clothespress and a note on the dresser.
To her astonishment she saw a small form crumpled on the bed, head buried in a pillow, sobbing. Her maternal instincts aroused, she hastened forward. “Gillie! What is the matter? Are you ill?” she asked anxiously.
The brown curls nestled on the pillow shook in a negative. “But what is it, my dear?” Without waiting for an answer, she knew. The child was homesick, and here she had been treating her roughly, never saying a kind word, doing nothing but nag. She felt like a monster. Her hand went out, and she began patting the silky curls, which had the effect of deepening the sobs till the girl’s shoulders shook.
“Come now, you can tell me,” she said in a soft, motherly voice. “Is it my fault, Gillie? It is! I’ve been horrid, and it is only my own stupidity that caused this muddle.”
Gillie lifted her head. Moist, red eyes looked a question at Mrs. Searle. “What muddle? What do you mean? It’s not your fault.”
Mrs. Searle extended her arms and pulled the girl against her breast. It felt good, to hold someone close, even if it was only this ramshackle child. This must be how a mother felt, all warm and soft and loving. “Tell me all about it, Gillie,” she said in a cajoling way.
“I want to go home,” she said. “I miss Penny and Abe and Elmer. I miss Erne and Alice and Rawl, too.” Gillie began to rub her eyes with her knuckles.
“I know Penny is your mount, but who are Abe and Elmer?”
“The stablehands. They’re my friends. I hoped Rawl would have sent Penny before now. I know something’s happened to her. I know it.”
“Nothing has happened. It would take a while for the letter to reach Elmland and for your brother to make the arrangements. You cannot send a mount through the post, you know. Very likely Penny will arrive tomorrow, and we shall go riding.”
Hope blossomed through the tears. “Could we? The hills hereabouts are so lovely.”
“Bath is considered pretty hard riding. I thought we might go west, along the Old Roman Road. I have been missing my rides, too. I have a friend on that road, Lord Horatio Evendon. We shall make him give us tea. Or perhaps ale,” she added with an arch smile. “Lord Horatio brews his own ale, excellent stuff. Would you like that, Lady Gillian?”
“I would like it of all things! You—you called me Gillie before,” she said shyly.
Beatrice realized this forlorn waif wanted affection, friendship, and felt a sudden attraction to her. “That was previous of me. In the emotion of the moment—”
“I liked it!”
“Then you should have asked me to do so before. You are a lady. It is for you to confer that freedom, you must know.”
“No, I didn’t know. Please call me Gillie. It is friendlier. And may I call you Bea, as I hear your friends do?”
“I am so much older, I don’t think . . . Perhaps you could call me Aunt Bea.”
“But you’re not my aunt.”
“A sort of honorary title. Yes, that will do nicely.” She smoothed the girl’s hair back from her forehead. It was surprisingly soft and silky. “We should have something done to this hair. Shall we call in the coiffeur?”
“If you like.”
“You will want a bit more style for the ball. There is a cotillion ball at the Upper Rooms tomorrow evening.” She had been feeling guilty about Gillian and planned to take her on this outing. “I am a subscriber. We should put your name in Mr. King’s book as well. It is kept at the Pump Room for people to peruse and see who is in town.”
“I shouldn’t think anyone would know me,” Gillie replied.
Perhaps they would not, but a Lady Gillian, from Elmland, would excite some interest. People would be on the lookout for her and cause a little fluster of excitement. That might be good for Gillie’s self-confidence. “You are allowed to go to assemblies?” she asked.
“I go to the ones at home. Deborah says I need polish, and Rawl says he don’t want me fired off from the schoolroom without meeting anyone.”
“Yet he tried to set up a match with Lord Stuyvesant?”
“That was Deborah’s idea.”
“Then we shall begin attending the assemblies, and that will serve as your initiation. I don’t see why you should not have a Season in London,” she added pensively. If it was fast beaux Deborah feared, she would not have put that renowned dasher Stuyvesant forward. No, Gillie had hit it on the head. Deborah feared to take Southam there, but Southam’s presence was not necessary for Gillie to have her Season.
“I’ll never be allowed. Deborah has nowhere to stay,” she replied. “Her papa is there, but he only has rooms somewhere.”
The plan was forming for Beatrice to take Gillie herself, but until she had Southam’s permission, she would not mention it. “I don’t see why Southam doesn’t marry his Deborah,” she said with a tsk of disgust. “Then she would have somewhere to stay, and you would have a chaperon for your Season.”
“Perhaps they didn’t think of that.”
“Then you should suggest it to them.”
Gillie worried her lips. “I wouldn’t want to rush Rawl into the marriage,” she said. “Marry in haste, repent at leisure. I am hoping that he will get over her, you see. It must be only an infatuation, don’t you think, Aunt Bea? I mean he cannot love her.”
“There is no saying in these things,” she said vaguely, though in her heart she agreed completely.
“That is true. He’s changed since she took over.”
“What do you mean, took over? She doesn’t live at Elmland, surely?”
“She might as well. She is there every day, and she manages to keep other young ladies away. When the Lawsons called, she had the butler tell them she was busy with the painters. Miss Lawson is very pretty,” she said knowingly. “Deborah is having the saloon painted blue, but the men hadn’t even started yet. She and Rawl were just talking about their wedding. She wants to be married at Saint George’s, in Hanover Square, because of the royal princesses, you know, but Rawl wants to be married at home.”
“They are actually making their wedding plans, are they?”
“She is making the plans. She says I can be her matron of honor if I marry Stuyvesant.”
“He is too old and too fast for you, my child. I cannot think what Southam is about. You would have much better pickings in London. I shall suggest it to Southam myself.”
Gillie expressed very little interest in this scheme. “I wonder if Penny will come tomorrow,” she said.
“If not, I can borrow a hack for you. I have many friends. Someone will be happy to oblige us. And tomorrow evening, we shall go to the cotillion ball.” She rose and tidied her gown before leaving.
When Beatrice was at the door, Gillie asked, “What did you mean, Aunt Bea, that your stupidity had caused a muddle? You said that earlier, when you first came in and started acting nice.”
“Acting nice.” The thoughtless phrase reminded Bea that she had been acting badly. “Nothing. It was just my confusion.”
“But what muddle? You said I might come. Am I even worse than you expected?” she asked, a frown pleating her brow.
“Certainly not. You show great potential.”
“You thought Rawl was coming with me. Is that
it? You didn’t know he was engaged to Deborah?”
“I had no idea Deborah lived anywhere near you. You’d best tidy yourself now, Gillie. You look a fright.”
She got out without admitting the truth, but she had a sinking sensation at the pit of her stomach that Gillie had discerned her secret.
Chapter Three
A new closeness began to develop between Gillie and Beatrice Searle. Penny arrived the next day, and they had their initial ride out the Old Roman Road to the ramshackle estate of Lord Horatio Evendon, younger son of a duke, and uncle to the present Duke of Cleremont. In this unlikely gentleman Gillie found another friend. Lord Horatio was known to have little common sense and less money, but what little he had of both was devoted to the family failing: horseflesh. Though his house was crumbling to ruin, his stables were in excellent repair. Only six of the twenty stalls were full, but the animals were prime goers: a team of grays for his curricle, a team of bays for his city carriage, a hacker, and a hunter.
While Gillie examined the cattle, prying open mouths to look at teeth, bending to the ground to lift a hoof and feel an ankle, Bea talked to Lord Horatio. He had been a friend of her late father’s, and was like an uncle to her. She had long since got over any surprise that the son and uncle of a duke should dress like a farmer and talk like a groom. His full head of black hair was hardly touched by gray. He looked much as he had looked for as long as she could remember. His narrow face had always been the color and texture of leather, his eyes always a deep blue. Only his eyebrows had changed, sprouting long, wiry hairs over the years. He looked rather like an unkempt rustic satyr.
“Who is this young filly you’re chaperoning, Bea?” he asked, drawing out a cigar to light.
“Lord Southam’s half sister.”
“Some kin to Leonard, then. Are you looking for a match for her?”
“She’s too young to marry. I am looking for some safe beaux for her to cut her teeth on. Any ideas, Horatio?”
