by M C Beaton
“I feel we have met before,” said Andrew Harvey, taking Lucy’s small hand in his and smiling down into her eyes.
“No. We have not met before,” said Lucy.
“You are Scottish, your father tells me. Lovely country. I was there not so long ago. At Marysburgh. Perhaps you know it?”
“No,” said Lucy vehemently and then blushing again.
“Do you mean to hold Lucy’s hand all day?” demanded Didi in a high, thin voice.
Andrew Harvey laughed and released Lucy’s hand. “I hear tea being announced. You must allow me to escort you, Miss Balfour-MacGregor.”
“You always escort me,” said Didi in a high, shrill voice. There was an embarrassed little silence and then Andrew Harvey patted Didi lazily on the cheek. “And so I shall again, Miss Didi, as soon as I am through welcoming the newcomers.”
Lucy walked beside him as if in a dream. Tea was served on a glassed-in terrace overlooking the tumbling sea below. Lucy wished Andrew would turn his attention elsewhere until she had time to compose herself, but every time she looked shyly up from the tea table, the mocking, glinting blue eyes were looking down into her own.
She stared resolutely out at the sea.
“What are you searching the waves for, Miss Balfour-MacGregor?” teased the light, pleasant voice she remembered so well. “Charon, perhaps? I declare I thought I had stepped into the fields of Hades when I arrived. All those white figures wandering in a smoky haze of incense! I am glad to see you were bold enough to wear some color. That’s a very pretty gown. Parisian, is it not?”
“Yes,” said Lucy, changing her gaze from the sea to her teacup.
“This will never do. You are supposed to rap my knuckles with your fan and say that gentlemen shouldn’t know of such things. What do you think of the social delights of Dinard?”
“Very interesting.”
“A model of tact! We do have other amusements, you know. Now, there is an old gentleman whom Mrs. Hackett says is not quite-quite, a Mr. Jones who lives at the other end of town in a vast Gothic mansion. He is very vulgar and very cheerful—straight out of Dickens. Vast meals and jolly entertainments. He is planning a ball to which the whole town is to be invited. Of course, our good hostess will not go because it is rumored that Mr. Jones made his fortune by carrying on where Mr. Crapper left off. And where would we be without Mr. Crapper?”
Lucy blushed. Thomas Crapper was the name that looked up at you when you looked down the toilet bowl—if ladies were ever known to look.
“So, despite our good hostess’s social damnings about upstarts and people in trade, we shall nonetheless all go and have a splendid time. I like Mr. Jones. He’s from Yorkshire, which isn’t Scottish, but it is north. You will go of course. Please say you’ll go. In fact … please say something!”
“How can I,” remarked Lucy with some asperity, “when you won’t even let me get a word in edgewise? I don’t know whether I shall go or not. It’s up to Mr. Balfour-MacGregor.”
“How Victorian! Do you usually call your father Mr. Balfour-MacGregor?”
“Frequently,” said Lucy inanely.
“Quite correct. Shows a proper sign of respect. We should respect our parents’ gray hairs, no matter what scandalous nothings they may be whispering in our hostess’s ear.”
Lucy looked quickly across at Mrs. Hackett. She was leaning forward avidly to listen to what MacGregor was saying and her face was quite mottled with excitement
“The weather,” said Lucy desperately, “is uncommonly blustery …”
“… for the time of year,” blithely finished her infuriating companion. “It may even snow. Now we have disposed of the weather, I shall continue to rattle on regardless, trying to get this conversation or monologue or whatever, on a more exciting footing.”
Lucy gave up. Her green eyes looked straight into the mocking blue ones. “You, my lord,” she accused, “are flirting with me.”
“I’m trying. Trying desperately and not getting one inch along the way,” laughed Andrew Harvey. God! Her eyes were glorious. And he had at least got her to look at him and never, ever in his life had the viscount had to try so hard to get any young lady to do that.
“I also realize,” he said, dropping his voice, “that I am embarrassing you. The ball is tomorrow night. Please say you’ll come.”
“Yes,” said Lucy baldly, racking her brains for something light and frivolous to say.
“Good. Now I can abandon you to your fate. Boodles has been looking daggers at me. Oh, here he comes, bearing down on us and waving hot buttered crumpet all over the place. I must talk to Didi.”
He rose and made her an elegant little bow and left her feeling as if she had just survived a storm.
Boodles plumped heavily down into his place. "You don’t mind if I talk to you, Miss Balfour-MacGregor? Couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you. Jolly, pretty girl, what. I mean, don’t you know, shut away in this ghastly little town one doesn’t have a chance … I mean, don’t you know?” he ended miserably, looking at her with doglike eyes.
Emboldened by his shyness, Lucy smiled at him. “Dinard seems a very pleasant place. Why do you stay here if you don’t like it?”
“M’mother makes me,” he said. “’Course I don’t mind it now. I say. I’m not making you feel uncomfortable or anything?”
“No,” said Lucy. “I feel very comfortable. The view is lovely.”
“Lovely, eh, what!” Boodles let out a great bray of filthy laughter. Lucy shied and peered nervously out of the window, half expecting to see some couple engaged in some obscene act in the bushes. But when she turned back to Boodles, he was staring shyly at the table, his vulgar mirth having disappeared as if it had never existed. Didi was now seated next to Andrew, her little face radiant. Lucy experienced a violent twinge of jealousy followed by a feeling of irritation. She and Didi could have been such friends!
“Do move over and let me have a word with our newcomer.” The speaker was the debutante called Elinor. She did not so much look at Lucy as point like a game dog.
When Boodles had ambled reluctantly away, Elinor sat down and put her face very close to Lucy’s. “I have been hearing a lot about you,” she began in a tone which suggested that what she had heard was not altogether pleasant. “Scotch, I believe. I know all the best families. You know the Dunferns, of course.”
“Of course,” said Lucy. “And I would rather not.” She remembered the footman and felt on safe ground.
“Oh, really, why?”
“I would rather not say.”
“Oh! Where are you going to be when you are in town?”
“I don’t know. We have yet to find a place.”
“How odd. Our family has had a house in town for centuries.”
“Our family,” said Lucy primly, “took a dislike to town in George the Third’s reign.”
“Why?”
“He pinched my great-great grandmother’s bottom, King George did.”
Elinor was impressed despite herself but she was still very jealous.
“Where were you educated?
“At home,” said Lucy stiffly.
“Where’s home?”
For the life of her Lucy could not remember the fictitious place and for a split second wondered what on earth to say. She was saved. Elinor suddenly leapt about three feet in the air and screamed, “Someone pinched my bottom!”
Elinor looked wildly around. So did everyone else. But no one appeared to be near the girl and only Lucy had seen the spritely MacGregor nipping quickly away to the other side of the room.
“It must have been the ghost of George the Third,” said Lucy cheerfully.
“But I didn’t imagine it,” wailed Elinor. “My sit-upon still hurts.” Boodles delivered himself of his usual vulgar laugh and Elinor glared at him.
“Honestly, Boodles. You should send that laugh of yours out to be laundered,” snapped Elinor, turning once again to Lucy. “What were we talking about, Miss Balfour-Mac
Gregor?”
“We weren’t really talking,” said Lucy with sudden asperity. “You were asking a frightful lot of questions.”
Lucy had not meant to be so sharp but the sight of Andrew Harvey laughing and chatting with Didi made her feel lost and empty.
With relief, she saw the other man, Buffy, approaching. “Are you going to Mr. Jones’s ball?” he asked.
“If I am invited,” said Lucy.
“Oh, we all are.”
“Pay no attention,” said Mrs. Hackett. “The man is not quite-quite, definitely not pukka-sahib. Not one of us. In trade. Smells of the shop.”
“I say, that’s going a bit far,” cut in Andrew Harvey cheerfully. “Can’t say I’ve ever noticed Jonesy smelling of his products.”
“The clean ones don’t smell,” said MacGregor conversationally. “It’s only when they’ve been used …”
Elinor got to her feet. She was quite puce with anger. “Such subjects are not discussed in front of ladies. I am surprised at your allowing it. I swear that man"—here she pointed to MacGregor—"has corrupted you.”
She waited for a second, sure of Mrs. Hackett’s apology. After all, she, Elinor, was one of the Bellings of Sussex. But Mrs. Hackett had tasted more heady social gossip than anything Elinor had to offer, so she simply said nothing and stared across the Queen Ann silver teapot with an air of brooding malice.
After Elinor had left, the other guests began to consider taking their leave as well.
Andrew Harvey noticed out of the corner of his eye that Lucy and MacGregor were leaving. “Excuse me, Didi. I feel I should escort the newcomers back to their hotel.”
Didi racked her brains for something to say that would dissuade him but he was already crossing the room to Lucy’s side.
“I will see you both safely home, Mr. Balfour-MacGregor.”
“It’s quite all right,” said the infuriating MacGregor. "Mrs. Hackett has kindly offered her carriage.”
“You have not seen much of Dinard, have you?” asked the persistent viscount of Lucy. “Of course you haven’t. I am sure you can trust me with her as far as the hotel, sir.”
“Very well,” said MacGregor. “Off you go if you insist on walking.”
Lucy’s heart began to hammer. They would be alone, she and Andrew Harvey, as alone as they had been on the Scottish hillside. They would walk above the tumbling sea and under the tinny rattling of the winter palms …
“What a ripping idea. I declare I will walk as well.” It was Didi. Andrew swore under his breath.
“Good idea,” he said. “Boodles will escort Didi and I will show Miss Balfour-MacGregor the sights of our adopted town.”
Boodles and Didi were quite patently furious. Boodles would have liked to escort the attractive newcomer himself, and Didi, of course, wanted the viscount to herself.
Outside, Andrew Harvey held out his arm to Lucy. She put her hand timidly on his arm, feeling as if an electric charge had just been shot through her body.
Didi and Boodles followed behind them along the walk above the noisy sea. Occasionally they would shout remarks to the infuriating couple in front but neither Andrew nor Lucy seemed to be aware of their existence.
One part of Andrew Harvey’s brain seemed to be looking on at himself in cynical amusement. He could not have fallen in love so quickly. One simply did not. The girl was remarkably beautiful, but, then, he had met many beauties. He would keep his head and enjoy a flirtation, and if she seemed to be getting at all serious about him, he would fade away in his usual practiced manner.
All too soon the walk broadened out allowing the other couple to come abreast. Lucy watched Didi’s expressive little face as the girl looked at Andrew Harvey. What a mixture it was of love and passion and jealousy and anger. Lucy shivered. Perhaps she would become like that herself. Perhaps she would be flirted with for a little length of time until the viscount was no longer amused. She must be very careful. They had reached the Hôtel du Nord. She abruptly withdrew her hand and bid the startled party a curt good-day.
MacGregor was already there and waiting. “You’re going too fast, Lucy. Hold back a bit. If you’re so obviously in love with a man like Harvey, he’ll soon lose interest.”
“I know,” said Lucy crossly. Love was such a delicate, fragile thing, like the spun glass birds in the case in the corner of their drawing room. MacGregor’s interest in her romance seemed vulgar. She wished he would go away.
“Oh, dear,” sighed MacGregor. “It’s obviously all too delicate and precious at the moment for a bit of everyday horse sense. Well, if you don’t want to talk about it, let’s talk of something else. It’s high time we got ourselves some servants. The lack of them is making us conspicuous. I’ve employed a temporary valet and lady’s maid through the hotel manager. If you go on any more walks with young gentlemen, my dear, be sure to take your maid.”
“But will I employ my own lady’s maid in London?” asked Lucy anxiously.
“Well, if you’re sure you’re up to it. Get a woman with good references.”
Lucy nodded but had privately made up her mind to employ some young girl who would enjoy the opportunity of having a lenient mistress.
“Are we going to Mr. Jones’s ball?” she asked, to change the subject.
“I suppose so. Don’t die with excitement before then.”
“I am perfectly calm,” snapped Lucy. But secretly she felt that the next day would never come.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Joneses’ mansion was called Mon Repos, conjuring up visions of quiet suburban villas standing among laurel bushes in a tree-lined road.
But Mon Repos was a great towering Gothic house perched on the edge of a barren cliff and set about with spires and turrets and gargoyles. Elinor Glynn would have loved it. A fine, powdery snow was blowing in from the sea as Lucy and MacGregor alighted. To heighten the Gothic effect, flambeaux flared from sconces in the walls, sputtering and smoking in the bitter wind.
The entrance hall was a veritable armory of halberds and suits of armor. Ancient flags fluttered in the drafts high up on the beamed roof and Lucy only learned much later that they were modern and that Mr. Jones had paid a great deal to have them cleverly faded, tattered, and frayed.
A powdered footman with a bad case of temper—Lucy wondered if his hair hurt him—led them to the first floor where they were to leave their cloaks. Another bad-tempered footman—it must be the hair—accosted them outside and marched them along a complicated series of passages which suddenly opened into a circular hallway where Mr. Jones himself stood at the top of the stairs leading down into the ballroom, to receive his guests.
He was a fat, jolly little man with a fat, wet handshake. He seemed greatly taken with MacGregor and promised them both a tour of his “museum” later in the evening. They were then passed on to a cross-looking majordomo, who was dressed in scarlet livery bedecked with a great deal of silken cords. Lucy felt that if she pulled one of them, his whole uniform would roll up like a Venetian blind. A carved wooden staircase adorned with carved wooden unicorns and lions stretched down to the polished floor of the ballroom where a great assortment of people seemed to be inexpertly performing the quadrille. A small orchestra sawed away with great verve at selections from Offenbach in a worm-eaten minstrels’ gallery which was suspended over the ballroom at one end.
Andrew Harvey was not dancing. He was standing against the far wall chatting amiably with Didi. He was thinking about what a charming and witty girl Didi was and that if he got around to settling down he could certainly do much worse. He thought briefly of Lucy and mentally shook his head. He must be getting overly susceptible in his old age.
He had not heard Lucy or MacGregor being announced, which was not at all strange, since the cross majordomo was mangling every announcement with Gallic verve. His roar of Monsieur et Mademoiselle Bugger-Macgreeg had fallen on deaf ears. Lucy was halfway down the staircase when Andrew Harvey looked up and saw her.
She was dressed i
n a gown of heavy crimson brocade, cut low over the bosom. Her midnight-black hair was tied back in a heavy knot at the base of her neck and was without ornament. She looked like a medieval princess. Andrew Harvey felt his heart give a little wrench and Didi looked down at her own simple white tulle and felt the world come to an end.
Andrew’s feet seemed to walk toward Lucy of their own accord. Didi followed silently at his side. Lucy stopped at the foot of the stairs when she saw their approach. The viscount’s blue eyes looked unusually serious and Didi was staring with the hurt, lost look of a stray dog.
“May I?” Andrew took Lucy’s dance program and began to write in it busily. Lucy gave a breathless little laugh. “Why, you are engaging me for nearly every dance, my lord!”
“Shall we begin now?” He held out his arms and Lucy moved into them. They moved slowly off to the strains of the waltz, the fair head bent over the black one, and MacGregor heaved a sigh of relief. He had not been sure, he realized, whether Lucy knew how to dance.
Thousands of candles blazed from the walls, lighting the ballroom with a soft, flickering light.
Andrew Harvey held Lucy sedately at regulation arm’s length and resisted an overwhelming impulse to hold her closer
Lucy could not remember afterward who else had been at the ball apart from herself and Didi and MacGregor. Faces formed an enchanting blur at the edge of a kind of stage where she danced alone with the viscount.
Didi refused several offers to dance. She stood over beside the long windows and watched Lucy and Andrew with her heart beating fast. She must do something—anything—to stop what was happening. She slipped behind the heavy curtains and leaned her hot forehead against the cool glass. On a sudden impulse, she reached up and seized the heavy metal clasp and pulled the great window open.
The curtains ballooned out into the ballroom, the candle flames streamed sideways and then went out, and the ballroom was plunged into blackness. There were screams and scuffles, someone swearing in French, someone calling for lights. Didi slipped away from the window. That would stop them.
Andrew Harvey had indeed stopped. “Lucy!” he whispered.
