by Joan Smith
“Tannie’s the one could set you in that line. You know my nevvie, Tannie, the duke?”
“Only by reputation. A duke in Suffolk, however, is no good to us.”
“He’s in Bath. He has an aunt and a million or so cousins here as well as myself. The boy is horse-mad. Comes by it honestly, what? I’ll bring the young colt to call if you like.”
“Please do, but do not speak of it as a match, or you will upset that million or so of relatives. Lady Gillian has only ten thousand dot.”
“Money’s no problem to that lot. Not to Tannie anyhow. Seeing how keen she is on horses, I wager they’d get along like roast beef and mustard.”
“Who’s he staying with in Bath?” Bea asked with rising interest.
“My sister, Mildred—old Lady Sappington. She is trying to bend Tannie in her niece’s direction. It won’t take. The girl is a bluestocking. Tannie prefers bay or gray. He’ll soon be off to Newmarket. He has some nags entered in the races. I’ll mention your gel to Tannie next time I see him.”
“Are you entering the races this year?”
“My pockets are to let. I’ll be only a spectator.” He glanced toward the stable. “The gel has a way with nags. See how she is talking to Silver, and he acting as tame as a mouse. He won’t usually let anyone but me near him.”
Gillie placed a kiss on the horse’s nose and came prancing forward. “What a perfectly-matched pair, Lord Horatio! Those grays must be sweet goers. Sixteen miles an hour, I wager.”
“Sixteen and a half.” He grinned. “Do ye drive, missie?”
“Only the gig at home. My brother won’t let me have a carriage. He says hacking and hunting are enough. I have to ride an old worn-out hunter. I wish I were rich.”
“So do I, too, and I’d marry you,” he said, jiggling her cheeks between his fingers. “We’ll begin our courtship with a driving lesson—if your chaperon permits?”
A beatific smile glowed on Gillie’s face, “May I, Aunt Bea?” she asked.
“Quite cutting me out! I see no harm in your taking a spin with Lord Horatio. He is an excellent teacher. He taught me to drive.”
“You didn’t tell me you could drive!” Gillie exclaimed.
“I don’t keep a phaeton since my husband’s death. In my salad days, I was a notable whip, was I not, Horatio?”
“A regular Lettie Lade. The first lady in Bath to drive her own rig, if memory serves. Will you ladies come to the house for a glass of ale?”
“Could I have mine here?” Gillie asked. “I want to check out Silver’s back. Did you know he has a little swelling on his muzzle, Lord Horatio? If it’s a warble, you’ll want to get a hot fomentation on it. I’ll check his back and withers. Saddle warbles can be the very devil, and they come on so quickly.”
“It’s no warble, my dear. I accidentally hit him with the end of my crop. I don’t have any warble flies. I keep the stable disinfected, but if you want your ale sent out, it’s no problem.”
“Yes, please.”
“Watch for Lucifer. He’ll get his tongue into your glass if you let him. He likes his ale.”
“I am not a complete flat, Lord Horatio!”
“What a splendid day it has been!” Gillie exclaimed when they reached home.
Bea was coming to know her well enough to know it was not the coiffeur’s successful morning visit, nor the prospect of the cotillion ball that evening that occasioned the remark. It was horses.
“I hope the evening will be equally splendid.” As she had entered Lady Gillian’s name in Mr. King’s subscription book, she felt the ball would not be a fiasco at least.
That evening Bea arranged Gillie’s hair herself and lent her a green shot silk scarf to enliven her white gown. The greatest improvement in her looks, however, was her smile. She was really rather sweet, now that she had got over her perpetual sulking.
“I hope they don’t waltz,” Gillie said as the carriage took them from Mrs. Searle’s comfortable house on Saint Andrew’s Terrace down busy Milson Street to the New Assembly Rooms.
“Waltz in Bath! My dear, only in the racier private homes, such as your Aunt Bea’s. The country dance is all that is usually permitted at the Assembly Rooms, but on Thursday we have the cotillion ball. Two cotillions are performed at the fancy ball as well. As this is Thursday, there will be cotillions but no waltzing.”
“That’s good, because I don’t know how to do it. Deborah lets us have two waltzes at our local assemblies. She wouldn’t let me waltz, because I am too young.”
“Old enough to marry, but too young to waltz?” Bea exclaimed. “I should have thought marriage the more demanding chore. Is Deborah in charge of the local assemblies?”
“She is in charge of everything,” Gillie said comprehensively.
Deborah obviously ruled the roost at Alderton, but her rule did not extend to Bath. With a real concern for Gillie growing stronger by the moment, Bea decided to make this holiday a time to remember. She was busy among her friends, and saw to it that Gillie never lacked for partners. There was no ignoring the fact that no gentleman lingered after a dance, nor did he request a second honor. It was not so much the girl’s looks, for she turned out looking handsome enough, if a touch rustic. No, it was her harping on stable matters that cooled their ardor. The assembly closed at eleven sharp, and the ladies returned to Saint Andrew’s Terrace.
“May we go riding again tomorrow, Aunt Bea?” was Gillie’s comment when they reached home. Not so much as a word about the assembly. She had met and stood up with half a dozen eligible gentlemen. Any normal girl would have been gurgling or at least repining.
“Let us wait and see what the weather has in store for us.”
Over the ensuing week Bea set a routine of riding in the morning, to induce her charge to participate in social matters for the remainder of the day. There was the girl’s toilet to smarten up. Southam had not stinted in supplying funds, nor did Beatrice stint in spending it on silks and muslins, gloves and shawls and bonnets.
Lord Horatio was good to his word. He came twice to “give the youngster a whirl” in his curricle, as he described it. Of more importance, he brought his nephew, the Duke of Cleremont, with him to call one afternoon. The duke had the family looks—tall, slender, with dark hair and dark blue eyes. Yet these promising parts did not assemble into anything that would earn him the description handsome. He was all arms and legs, clumsy in his movements and awkward in his manners. His jackets were well cut, but between wrinkles, dust, and the scent of the stable, they were not what a gentleman’s jackets should be. It was no secret among those interested in such matters that Weston refused the duke his services, fearing the results would put off other clients.
Lord Horatio performed the introduction, then let nature take its course. He was more comfortable having a glass of sherry with Bea before the Rumford grate.
Gillie saw nothing amiss in the duke’s looks or manner, nor did she see anything intimidating in his title and numerous estates. “Your uncle tells me you have a fine stable at Ardmore Hall, Duke,” she said the moment he had performed his graceless bow and stumbled onto a chair.
“No,” he said. “Only a small stable at Ardmore Hall. A dozen stalls.”
“What’s in them?” she demanded.
“Percherons, mostly. Ardmore’s just a farm. Dandy cattle—cows, I mean. I don’t go to Ireland very often, except to a breeding farm I know of there. Evendon, in Suffolk, is where I keep my cattle.”
“Your horse cattle,” she said, not at all confused by this lack of specifying.
He nodded. “Two dozen stalls. A fine Arabian stud. I bred Firefly from him. Took the Oaks at Epsom last year, and the One Thousand Guineas at Newmarket as well. Might have taken the Derby, too, but I did not want to overwork her. Only two days apart. Mind you, she’ll run against the colts at Ascot this year. She ain’t afraid of going against the colts.”
Racing was an unknown field to Gillie. She interrupted his spasmodic utterances to say, “Wha
t do you ride yourself, Duke?”
“Prefer mares to geldings for hacking. I hunt a gelding, though. More power. My hands are too weak for a stallion. Broke my thumb riding one once.” He held up a crooked thumb for inspection. “Uncle tells me you ride a pony.”
Gillie bristled at this slur on her mount. “Penny is not a pony! She is part thoroughbred, even if she is only thirteen hands high.”
He gave a derisive snort. “Welsh or Shetland?” he asked, undeceived.
She ignored his jibe. “My brother, Lord Southam, rides an Arabian mare,” she announced grandly.
The duke nodded. “Black Lady. Papa sold her to him.”
“You bred Black Lady at Evendon?”
“Black Knight,” he said cryptically. “The Arab stallion I was telling you about. Sire. Dame was Gray Lady.”
“You didn’t tell me anything about your stallion, except that you own him. What line is he from?”
“Godolphin Barb.”
“Rawl thought he was from the Byerly Turk.”
A glimmer of interest flashed in the duke’s eyes. It wasn’t often that he met a lady with whom he could have a conversation of more than two or three syllables. It was nice to finally meet one who spoke equine English. “You drive?” he asked.
“I’m learning. Your uncle is giving me lessons.”
“A shocking bad fiddler. Cow-handed. Holds the reins too tight. Ruined more mouths than I care to think of, and don’t treat the wounds properly, either. Bran.”
Gillie nodded at this wisdom. “Mashed. Or at least cooked oats, till the mouth is healed. Where can you get good clean hay here in Bath? There were hawthorn twigs in Penny’s hay today.”
“Can’t. Not in the city. I order mine from old Jed Hanks, just north of Guinea Lane. I’ll send a load to your stable if you like.”
This was condescension of a high order and appreciated as such. “Yes, I would, thank you.”
“So, when would you like a driving lesson?”
“We ride in the morning—usually out the Old Roman Road. I should like to try some more challenging routes, but my Aunt Bea is old, you know.”
The duke looked across the room to the fetching widow and found nothing foolish in this statement. “A bit past it. We’ll ride north.”
“Drive, you mean.”
“I meant ride, in the morning. Will your aunt let you out with me, or are you too young?”
“I’m not young!”
“I’m twenty-seven. Don’t look it, they say, but I am. How old are you?”
“Nearly eighteen—in nine months. But I cannot like to abandon my aunt. She depends on me for company.”
“Pity. Tomorrow afternoon, then?”
“All right,” Gillie said with some pleasure, for she always appreciated an opportunity to try new cattle. “I’d best ask Aunt Bea first. She’s nice but quite strange. She makes me go to the Assembly Rooms and to concerts and even the lending library.” A snicker escaped her at these bizarre pastimes.
The duke shook his head in sympathy. “They get strange notions when they grow old. Can you ask her now? I want to leave.”
“All right.”
Mrs. Searle was not slow to give her permission to this scheme. It also occurred to her that the duke might replace her on some of those tedious morning rides. She liked riding but was not such a fanatic that she liked going out no matter how chilly the weather or how menacing the sky. Any gentleman staying with the redoubtable Lady Sappington must be unexceptionable. That Tannie was also an extremely eligible duke was not overlooked, either.
The afternoon drives were soon established as custom. The duke began replacing Beatrice in some morning rides as well. To repay his hospitality, she occasionally invited him to take dinner with them. His demeanor was closely studied, and though the chaperon detected no tender looks or whispered asides between the two, she observed that they got on uncommonly well. Almost like brother and sister. She learned from Lady Sappington that the duke would be going to London for the Season. It seemed an excellent idea for Gillie to go as well. With balls and other social doings that excluded horses, something romantic might develop between these two horse lovers.
Bea kept chipping away at Gillie’s rough edges to prepare her for the Season. She had some more fashionable gowns made up and taught her to hold a fan like a weapon of flirtation instead of a riding crop. One item that must be attended to was teaching her the waltz, and to this end, Bea joined her charge in a series of waltzing parties arranged by mothers of young ladies preparing to make their bows at Saint James’s. To her considerable astonishment, the duke agreed to take part in the lessons.
“Won’t do me any harm, I expect. A bit of an awkward fellow, I know.”
“Not in the saddle or in the riding box, either,” Gillie said supportively. “Tannie reminds me of the swans at home, Aunt Bea. So graceful in their own element, and so awkward on land.” The youngsters had achieved a first-name basis during their outings.
“Pity they don’t have a mounted waltz.” Tannie smiled lazily. “By jingo, Gillie, I think we’re onto something.”
“The horses put their forelegs around each other, you mean?” she asked, with a disparaging look.
“Course not! The riders do.”
“They could only hold hands. A country dance would be better.”
Bea listened with falling hopes. This pair had no more notion of romance than a cat had of flying. But as the days passed, and she sat on the sidelines at the waltzing lessons, she noticed that the duke wore a piqued expression when Gillie danced with anyone but him. She could not blame Gillie for trying to escape him. His waltzing was execrable. He seemed to have four feet, one of which was invariably on his partner’s toes.
Bea went to the refreshment table for a glass of wine during a lull in the lessons and overheard a conversation between the duke and Gillie.
“You haven’t stood up with me once!” the duke exclaimed angrily. He never bothered to lower his voice, no matter what he was saying or who was listening.
“I can’t afford to. You’ve already destroyed two pairs of my dancing slippers.”
“I don’t see why we must come to these stupid parties. It is a fine afternoon. We could be out driving.”
Gillie’s reply was less loud, but Bea overheard her name and suspected that she was being blamed. “All right, then, I’ll waltz with you next, but you must try to keep off my slippers, Tannie.”
“I suppose Mr. Egerton never accidentally touches your slippers?” he asked ironically. “How does it come they are all dusty? You haven’t danced with me all afternoon.”
“I danced with you last time. The scuff marks will not come off. Oh do be careful! You’re spilling wine all over your jacket.”
“Damme, and it’s brand-new! You didn’t even notice,” he added in an injured tone.
“It looks just like all your others,” Gillie replied unconcernedly. Really the girl had no notion of flirting, to let that excellent opening pass.
“Well it isn’t. It’s new.”
“It’s all right, but your cravat is a mess. Don’t you know how to tie a proper cravat?”
“It’s my broken thumb.’
“Have your valet do it, then.”
“He doesn’t know how, either.”
“Then get a new valet.”
“What, give Huckam the heave-ho, when he can bandage an ankle better than any of my grooms? Not likely!” He pulled out his watch. “Only half an hour more of this torture. I expect Mrs. Searle is dragging you off to the Assembly Rooms this evening?”
“No, a concert.” Her voice sounded like a yawn.
Mrs. Searle decided that Tannie was beginning to entertain proprietary feelings about Gillie. It was time to write to Southam and mention her plan of Gillie going to London for a Season.
Chapter Four
Bea’s letter was duly received at Elmland. When Deborah Swann made her daily call, Southam showed it to her. “Mrs. Searle suggests sending Gillie
to London for a Season. It might not be a bad idea,” he said.
“She will be better off at home, married to Stuyvesant.”
“I have been hearing things about Stuyvesant that make me less eager for that match, Deborah. He’s a bit wild for Gillie.”
“Marriage would settle him down. You cannot send her to London. Who would chaperon her?”
“We would. We could be married by May.”
Deborah considered this scheme. “But what if she fails to find a match? Then she would be back here with us. You know I cannot rub along with Gillian, Southam. She goes out of her way to annoy me. Her flouting of my authority would be a wretched example for dear Effie and Alice. Could Mrs. Searle not find someone for her in Bath? There must be some eligible gentlemen there.”
“It seems there are. Gillie mentions a good many balls and assemblies. She is seeing some horsey fellow called Tannie.”
“Tannie?” Miss Swann’s pale brow wrinkled in consternation. “I don’t recognize the name. He ‘ never visited the princesses. He cannot be anyone.”
“Some relative of Lady Sappington.”
“Some of those Sappingtons are very dirty dishes, Southam. Horse-mad, all of them. You may be sure he is some racetrack tout. I would put a stop to that if I were you.”
Southam listened in alarm. “It will be as well to get Gillie away from him. Perhaps Mrs. Searle would chaperon her in London. They could use my house in Berkeley Square. I would remain here, of course.”
Miss Swann pokered up at this suggested incursion into her domain. “That would look very odd, Southam. You scarcely know the lady.”
“You said she was unexceptionable! Damme, I have entrusted Gillie to her care. She is Leonard’s widow.”
“Her character is good, but socially—well, marrying your cousin Leonard is as high as her connections go. I only meant for her to smarten up Gillian’s toilet and manners. We do not want her moving into our house. We may never dislodge her. You know what leeches family connections can become. I daresay this is exactly what Mrs. Searle had in mind when she suggested London. A free Season for herself!”
Southam raked a hand impatiently through his hair. “What shall I do, then?”
