by M C Beaton
“I can see your garters through the cloth,” said Verity faintly.
“Good,” said Charlotte. “That should fetch him.”
Just before Lord Veney was due to arrive, Verity locked Pretty Polly up in its great brass cage, removed the cat and dog from her bed for the umpteenth time by yanking the coverlet and sending them tumbling onto the floor, and went down the back stairs to the kitchens to discuss arrangements for an engagement celebration with the housekeeper.
Verity liked going down to the kitchens and sitting at the scrubbed table and talking to the housekeeper, Mrs. Andrew.
Upstairs in Verity’s bedroom, Pretty Polly was throwing a parrot tantrum, jumping up and down in its cage. At last it settled down on the bottom, its shoulders hunched. It cast a bleak eye at the door of the cage and then hopped two steps and eased its right claw through the bars. It fiddled with the catch. There was a click and the door sprang open. Pretty Polly shuffled out onto the perch outside. It heard a sound at the door and hopped down to the floor and leaned against the wall.
Two chambermaids came in to clean Verity’s room. The parrot shuffled through the open door, unobserved by them. It made its way to the main staircase and cocked its head to one side. The parrot raised a claw and gave its head feathers a meditative scratch; then it combed out the gold fringe on its legs with its beak and began to hop down the stairs.
The double doors to the Yellow Saloon were standing open. There was a large bowl of nuts on a console table in the center of the room.
Pretty Polly hopped onto the table, selected a large walnut, and retreated behind a china cabinet in the corner to crack the shell.
Lord Veney was late. Charlotte had damped her muslin for the third time when he eventually arrived.
Obeying his instructions to the letter, Pomfret showed the earl into the saloon, served him a glass of canary, bowed, and left.
With his glass in his hand, Lord Veney strutted up and down the long room, picking up objects and examining them and then putting them down. There was a carved box on a little side table. He opened the lid and it immediately began to crank out a tune. “Music boxes,” said Lord Veney aloud, and shut the lid with a snap. “Never could abide the bloody things.”
“Pretty Polly,” said a voice from behind the china cabinet.
Lord Veney stood amazed, his glass raised halfway to his lips.
Then the voice began again and it was undoubtedly Charlotte’s voice, “Affection and respect for Veney? You odd girl. I tell you straight, he is a boor and a lecher. But once I am countess, he may find his pleasures elsewhere. After I breed, I shall be finished with that side of marriage—and let us hope he can manage it quickly, for I could not bear him in my bed for very long.”
Lord Veney carefully put down his glass and looked at the empty fireplace. He was sure the flue was acting as some sort of speaking tube and that what he had just heard was Charlotte talking to Verity in a room above.
He thought of plain and dowdy Miss Tring of Gloucester, who had adored him for years and whom he had snubbed. And all because of an infatuation for some trollop. Miss Tring should break her heart no longer. He would ride to Gloucester that very day and propose.
The doors of the saloon opened and Charlotte tripped in. Lord Veney looked her up and down. “You are disgusting and shameless,” he said.
He walked past her. He did not even stop to collect his hat and cane. He went straight out of the house and soon his angry voice could be heard shouting to his coachmen to “spring ’em.”
Charlotte began to scream, and when she had finished screaming, she demanded that every inch of the room be searched. Pretty Polly had sidled quietly out as the street door was slammed by Lord Veney. The parrot sailed quietly up the stairs. The chambermaids had finished their work and the bedroom door was standing open. The parrot flew back to its cage, and by the time Verity had coaxed the distraught Charlotte up to her room, the bird was asleep.
Freezing rooms and wet muslin finally got the better of Charlotte’s robust constitution and she came down with a feverish cold. Verity nursed her conscientiously, glad that none of the pets showed any inclination to invade Charlotte’s bedchamber.
The Duke of Denbigh had hired a new secretary. Unlike his father, he believed in employing local people whenever possible. The secretary was, therefore, Mr. Tom Crabbe, a local youth who had excelled at the village school. He was correct, hardworking, and obedient. But the duke was wondering whether he had made a mistake. The letters from Charlotte had ceased. He had broken down and written a teasing request for more news, but still nothing arrived from London. He began to suspect his poor secretary of losing letters. The duke started to collect all the post himself. Still no letter. His days began to take on a new pattern. The post boy arrived at ten in the morning. The duke rose at six. From six to ten, life seemed full of anticipation and promise; from ten to sunset, it seemed like a desert.
He began to become angry. He felt as if Charlotte had rejected and betrayed him again. At last his anger was so great that he decided he had been right not to go to London to see her. She had not changed one whit.
Recovered from her fever, Charlotte smiled wanly at Verity. “The next man who means to propose to me can do so outside this house. There is a curse on it.”
Verity, who did not believe in curses but did believe that Charlotte was unfortunate in her choice of suitors, remained silent.
“You are a good and kind friend, Verity,” said Charlotte, stretching out her plump little hand and clasping Verity’s strong, slim one. “Has Denbigh written?”
“You told me to stop writing to him, if you remember. He did write some time ago, obviously wondering at your silence.”
Charlotte dropped Verity’s hand and stared at her in amazement. “You utter fool,” she snapped. “What else had you to do with your time?”
Verity held her gaze. “I was nursing you, among other things.”
Charlotte shifted restlessly against the pillows. “Yes, yes. I am grateful. Very. But you should have used your wits, girl. With Veney off, then it follows that Denbigh must be on again.”
Verity sighed. Why had her father decided to stay in Edinburgh? Aloud she said, “I might have taken the initiative, but I do not have any money, if you will recall, not even for a stamp.”
“Oh, that. It is your own fault, you know, I do not know why you persisted in stopping me from investigating the servants.”
“Do you not?” asked Verity quietly.
Charlotte shifted again. “You have only to ask me for money. I shall let you have some… er, tomorrow. Please be my angelest darling and write to Denbigh.”
The Duke of Denbigh looked at the letter as if it were a snake. To leave it unread and forget about the whole business would mean he would keep his peace of mind. It lay unopened for the whole day until curiosity overcame him.
He read it with surprise and consternation. Charlotte had been ill! That was why she had ceased to write. And he had credited her with all sorts of evil machinations.
He sat down and began to write.
* * *
Charlotte looked up as Verity quietly entered her bedchamber with the post. “A letter from Denbigh.”
“You read it,” said Charlotte petulantly. “He is probably boring on about crops as usual.”
Verity broke open the heavy seal. The letter was short. The duke was alarmed to hear of her illness. He was traveling to London to see her and would arrive at his town house in Cavendish Square at the end of the week.
“Huzzah!” cried Charlotte, her face flushed with excitement. She flung back the covers, jumped from the bed, ran to the door, and started to shout for Pomfret.
Verity remained with the letter in her hand. She felt very sad. The dream was over. She had fondly imagined continuing the correspondence for a few more weeks until her return home, a few more weeks of dreaming of this fantasy lover.
She got to her feet and began to open all the drawers in the bureau in th
e corner of Charlotte’s room. There, stuffed at the very back of the bottom drawer, she found her purse. She was not very surprised. She stood, weighing it up and down in her hand. Why retreat now? Life was very pleasant. Charlotte was bearable. If she journeyed to Market Basset, she would need to stay with one of the neighbors until her father’s return. She could not leave the pets to Charlotte’s tender mercies, and she could not think of one sober citizen in her hometown who would be prepared to put up with the menagerie. Besides, why not stay and see this duke? He could not possibly be such a paragon as Lady Wythe had described. He was thirty-one and not yet married. Probably this Adonis was very difficult. His letters had been informative and charming. Verity suddenly giggled. How amusing it would be if it transpired he had not written any of them and had got a friend to write them for him.
Having decided to stay until her father sent for her, Verity made up her mind to do some shopping for herself. She could now afford to be a little extravagant.
She returned later that day, happy and exhausted. She had bought a new collar for Tray, a toy mouse for the cat, hothouse grapes for the parrot, and a length of burgundy-colored silk for herself. Pastels did not become Verity. Of course, she was not going to all this trouble for the duke, she told herself firmly. She simply felt she would be cheered by a new gown.
Charlotte spent the remaining days before the duke’s arrival in a flurry of hectic activity. The house was full from morning to night with mantua makers, milliners, jewelers, and plumassiers.
Verity diligently stitched at her new gown or walked the pets in the park. “Mrs. Manners is in high alt,” Verity confided in Lady Wythe. “Denbigh is coming to town expressly to see her.”
“And what,” said Lady Wythe, looking at the parrot who was stalking up and down in front of the bench on which they sat, its head bowed like an anxious old lawyer, “will Denbigh think when, instead of meeting the authoress of all these charming letters, he meets Mrs. Manners?”
“I do not know what you mean,” said Verity.
“Oh, yes, you do,” said the countess. “I only wish I could be there to see the fun. Here comes Mr. George Wilson to talk to you. A good prospect, if you are interested. He has a comfortable fortune and is not ill-favored. The only drawback is that he lives with his widowed mother.”
“And why should that be a drawback?”
“’Tis said she is determined to be the only female in the Wilson household. I have no patience with such selfishness.”
Verity experienced a qualm of conscience. Did her father really want to marry? And was her own single state what was preventing him from doing so?
She smiled with more warmth than usual at Mr. Wilson as he approached. He was a pleasant-looking man. He had only two pockmarks on his face and his brown hair was thick and springy. He was soberly but fashionably dressed. His legs were a trifle bowed.
“I tried to call on you yesterday,” began Mr. Wilson, “but I was told that you were not at home to anyone.”
“It is Mrs. Manners who is not at home at present,” said Verity. “She is expecting an important visitor at the weekend.”
“And who is that?”
Verity saw no reason to keep the duke’s visit a secret. “Denbigh,” she said.
“Our new duke? That will put more hearts than Mrs. Manners’s in a flutter. But not yours, I trust, Miss Bascombe?”
“Now, how can I get in a flutter about a man I have never seen,” teased Verity.
“Oh, Denbigh is very dashing. Quite the heart-breaker,” said Mr. Wilson gloomily. “Will you walk with me a little, Miss Bascombe? That is, if you will excuse us, Lady Wythe.”
Lady Wythe inclined her head gracefully. “Go ahead, Miss Bascombe,” she said. “I shall watch your creatures for you.”
Verity walked sedately with Mr. Wilson. He was a thoroughly worthy gentleman, she thought. Perhaps love was something you really had to work at. Perhaps all the books and poems lied. For she had seen no man in London to stir her feelings even in the slightest.
Chapter Four
The Duke of Denbigh’s town house turned a blank, unscalable wall to Cavendish Square. Like many of the aristocracy, his father had opted for a fortresslike appearance outside and kept all the elegance and grandeur for the inside.
The present duke had toyed with the idea of having the wall torn down. It had been built originally to protect the house and its inmates from the mobs that had thronged Oxford Street on the road to Tyburn on hanging days. But now the hangings were outside Newgate, and Oxford Street had become respectable.
But as Denbigh viewed the square, it looked so much like the same bleak square he had hated as a little boy that he decided to let the wall stand. Looking over the railings of the square as his carriage turned into it, he saw the sooty black trees still surrounding the dreary grass plot in the center with the equestrian statue of the Duke of Cumberland, “Butcher” Cumberland who had massacred so many of the Scotch. A few miserable governesses, huddled in shawls against the biting wind, shepherded wan-faced schoolboys round and round for their daily constitutional. Like a prison yard, thought the duke.
Behind him came carriage after carriage bearing his staff. The town house had been kept by a caretaker and his wife, as his father had not used it in years and the duke himself had not been there since he was a boy. There had been no time to send the servants in advance to make things ready.
He entered and walked slowly through the silent, enormous rooms. In a saloon on the first floor, the chandeliers hung shrouded in their Holland bags, and the long looking glasses at either end of the room made it seem even more enormous.
He could hear his servants’ muttered exclamations of dismay. But the caretaker was old and infirm and could not be expected to prepare the mansion with only the help of his equally aged wife. The duke had not realized until his arrival how old and infirm the man was. Time to give him a generous pension and retire him.
Soon a fire was blazing in the library to dispel the chill. He stood in front of it and thought of Charlotte Manners. Now that he was in London, now that he could see her any time he liked, he felt he had been too precipitate. He would hold an impromptu party in two or three days’ time, some cards and music and supper, and invite her to that.
All Saturday, Charlotte waited in a fever of excitement, running to the window every time she heard the sound of a horse or a carriage. She had changed her gown five times by late afternoon.
“What has happened?” she asked Verity for what seemed the hundredth time.
“Perhaps he has been delayed on the road,” said Verity, smoothing down the folds of her burgundy silk gown with a nervous hand. “Perhaps it might be an idea to send one of the footmen around to Cavendish Square just to look, you know. The house has a very high wall in front of it, but if the duke has arrived, there should be a great deal of coming and going.”
Charlotte rang the bell and ordered Pomfret to send a footman immediately to Cavendish Square.
The day was turning dark and a thin, greasy drizzle had begun to fall. Verity wandered over to the window and looked out at the dripping plane trees in the square. A lamplighter was going on his rounds with his ladder and can of whale oil. Soon the lights of Berkeley Square began to flicker in the increasing gloom. Verity shivered. The drawing room was very cold.
“It might be an idea to light a fire in here,” she suggested. “You are but recently recovered, Charlotte, and also, when the duke arrives, he would perhaps be cheered by the sight of a welcoming blaze.”
Charlotte nodded and ordered a fire to be made up. Verity sighed with relief. She did not want to put a shawl over her splendid gown. After all, she had gone to such trouble to make it that it would be a pity if the duke did not see it.
James, the second footman, returned with the intelligence that the duke had indeed arrived. There were lights in all the rooms in the upper storeys of the mansion.
“It is six o’clock,” said Verity. “He will not call now.”
There came a brisk knocking at the street door. Charlotte ran to a chair by the fire and arranged herself gracefully.
Both ladies waited anxiously. Then Pomfret came in with a letter, which he handed to Charlotte. She recognized Denbigh’s seal and tore it open. Verity found she was holding her breath.
“Fiddle!” said Charlotte furiously. “He has invited me to a small party on Tuesday evening. That means I shall not have the advantage over anyone else. I should have read those letters you sent, Verity. You obviously did a bad job.”
Verity kept her temper with an effort. “You turned him down once. The fact that he has invited you at all is a credit to my skill.”
“So you say,” commented Charlotte nastily. “And as you are not included in the invitation, you cannot go. Such a pity after all the effort you went to to make that gown!”
Verity went up to her room in a fury. “I don’t care,” she said aloud. “I simply don’t care. It has nothing to do with me. I must write to Papa and get him to give me a firm date for his return.”
But when she went to bed that night and felt two thumps as the dog and cat leaped in beside her, she did not shoo them off. Tray was pressed on one side of her and Peter, the cat, on the other. Pretty Polly shuffled up and down on the bed head before falling asleep.
Verity felt a rush of affection for these pets of Charlotte’s. At least someone likes me, she thought, before turning over and going to sleep.
When Charlotte entered the state saloons on the first floor of the duke’s mansion on Tuesday and surveyed the assembled guests, her heart sank right down to her sky-blue kid slippers. The other people invited seemed to consist of all of London’s most aged and highest sticklers, and, oh, dear, there was that old fright, Lady Wythe, sitting by the fire and looking wickedly amused about something.
