Pretty Polly

by M C Beaton

  Charlotte was wearing a very pretty sky-blue muslin gown. She saw her reflection in one of the long looking glasses and frowned. She was wearing six ostrich plumes in her hair, all dyed sky-blue to match her gown. Verity had suggested the effect was a trifle top-heavy, and Charlotte had replied by saying, “What does a provincial little nobody know about fashion?” But the feathers did look ridiculous. Then Charlotte realized that since she had begun to take Verity everywhere with her, Verity’s very presence assured her, Charlotte, of a warm welcome. There was something about Verity that seemed to melt the heart of the flintiest dowager.

  The duke had been talking to Mr. and Mrs. Hatfield, an elderly couple whom Charlotte had once snubbed. He turned, saw Charlotte, and smiled.

  Charlotte felt as if all the breath had been knocked out of her body. She had forgotten he was so very handsome. He was wearing a black evening coat, and his black pantaloons were molded to his muscled legs to just above his ankles. He was wearing green-and-gold-striped silk stockings and flat black shoes.

  He crossed immediately to Charlotte’s side and stood smiling down at her. He raised her hand to his lips. “I trust you are recovered from your illness, Mrs. Manners?” he asked.

  “Yes, thank you,” said Charlotte, blushing adorably and looking down at her feet.

  “I must thank you,” he went on, “for your charming and delightful letters.”

  “Thank you,” mumbled Charlotte, unusually tongue-tied.

  “And how are Tray and Peter and that parrot with the ridiculous name?”

  With an effort, Charlotte realized he was talking about her pets.

  “Tiresome as usual,” she said.

  He laughed and Charlotte wondered what she had said that was so amusing. “You cannot fool me, Mrs. Manners,” he said. “I know from your letters that you quite dote on them.”

  She raised her eyes fleetingly to his, and he saw with surprise the brief flash of shock followed by irritation in them. Charlotte was thinking, Damn, Verity, why did she have to drivel on about that useless zoo?

  She contented herself by saying, “Mmm,” and then added brightly, “Now that you are in town, Denbigh, you must agree it is a vastly more interesting place than the country.”

  “It has certain attractions, I agree,” he murmured, and Charlotte gave him a flirtatious look and raised her fan to her face. “I was interested in your description of your meeting with Monk Lewis.”

  “Oh, that,” said Charlotte, remembering that tedious evening with dismay. What would Verity have written? Verity was a bit of a bluestocking. She must have enthused like mad. “Yes, he is a divinely interesting man,” Charlotte went on. “Those piercing eyes, that noble forehead.”

  “You have certainly changed your views,” said the duke. “As I recall, you thought he had eyes like those of an insect.”

  Charlotte laughed, that tinkling laugh she had practiced so often. She rapped him playfully on the shoulder with her fan. “Oh, you must allow us ladies to change our minds,” she said.

  At that moment, the Countess of Wythe rose from her seat by the fire and came to join them.

  “I do not see Miss Bascombe,” she said.

  Charlotte looked at the countess with dislike. “Miss Bascombe was not invited,” she said.

  “Who is Miss Bascombe?” asked the duke.

  “She is a lady who went to the same Bath seminary as I,” said Charlotte. “She is not very good ton, a country lawyer’s daughter, but I felt it would do the poor thing good to have some fun.”

  “I am a friend of Miss Bascombe,” said the dowager. “A most entertaining lady. She has become quite a feature in Hyde Park when she walks along with her dog, cat, and parrot.”

  “My dog, cat, and parrot,” Charlotte said between her teeth.

  “Of course.” The countess gave a crocodile smile. “But the creatures are so devoted to Miss Bascombe, and she to them, that I had quite forgotten.”

  Then Lady Wythe looked brightly from the duke’s puzzled face to Charlotte’s furious one, with her head cocked to one side like a bird looking for worms.

  “Do walk with me a little, Your Grace,” said Charlotte, now desperate to get away from the dowager.

  He bowed to Lady Wythe and held out his arm courteously to Charlotte. “I am so glad there is to be dancing,” said Charlotte, peeping up at him. “I long to dance.”

  “Alas, I had meant to have dancing,” said the duke ruefully. “But I had not realized I had asked so many elderly people. I am afraid it is going to be an evening of cards and gossip.”

  Charlotte saw they were approaching Mr. and Mrs. Hatfield and tugged a little at the duke’s arm to turn him about, but he bowed to the Hatfields and came to a stop. He glanced down at Charlotte in surprise and irritation. She should have curtsied to the Hatfields, but she stood unmoving, possessively holding on to his arm.

  As if to highlight Charlotte’s lack of manners, Mrs. Hatfield sank into a deep court curtsy and Mr. Hatfield gave a magnificent bow punctuated with many wavings of his handkerchief and a long scrape of his foot along the floor.

  The duke bowed low in return, and there was nothing else Charlotte could do but release his arm and drop a curtsy.

  “You promised us cards, Denbigh,” said Mr. Hatfield.

  “And you shall have them,” the duke replied. “The tables are already set up in the adjoining room.” He turned and announced that the card playing was about to begin. In the general push to the card room, Charlotte was jostled aside and ended up making up a foursome at whist with a tall colonel, his wife, and a thin, faded spinster.

  Charlotte always cheated at cards. Since she usually played cards only with adoring young men, she got away with it. But the spinster called Miss Jessop exclaimed in a strident voice, “You are cheating, Mrs. Manners, and it will not do.”

  So the mortified Charlotte lost a great deal of money.

  The card game dragged on for what seemed an eternity and Charlotte could hardly believe her ordeal had come to an end when supper was announced.

  She stood up hopefully, looking toward the duke. But he was escorting Lady Wythe, who was the most senior in rank of the ladies. Charlotte was placed somewhere down near the end of the table.

  She felt a lump rising in her throat. No one seemed to think she was pretty. She picked at her food and drank a great deal too much. At long last Lady Wythe rose, signaling that the ladies were to retire to the drawing room and leave the gentlemen to their wine.

  So Charlotte sat in the drawing room and waited and waited, while all about her the ladies conversed. She missed Verity dreadfully. Verity seemed to have an endless fund of small talk, and Charlotte had become used to never having to make much of an effort herself.

  At last, after an hour, the gentlemen came in. Mrs. Hatfield entertained the company with a pianoforte recital, so there was no chance for Charlotte to talk to the duke. Then when that was finished, Miss Jessop sang some very long ballads.

  At last Charlotte was urged to entertain the company by some of the ladies who, though Charlotte did not know it, were beginning to feel sorry for her because she looked so lost and miserable.

  Charlotte sat down at the piano and hammered out that piece called “The Woodpecker,” which every young miss was forced to learn at some time or another. The applause was warm and polite. The duke crossed to the piano to thank her and Charlotte gave him a blinding smile.

  He smiled warmly back, quite enchanted with her. She was more beautiful than he had remembered. He was heartily sorry he had just invited the first names that had come into his head. How depressing it must be for her not to have any young people to talk to.

  “You did not mention Miss Bascombe in your letters,” he said, “or I would have included her in the invitation.”

  “Perhaps if you care to call, you can meet her. She is quite amusing in a provincial kind of way.”

  The smile left his eyes. The Charlotte who had written those letters could not be the Charlotte who cal
led her friends “provincial.”

  But, he reflected, it would do no harm to take Mrs. Manners out driving. He was sure, away from social strains and stresses, she would turn into that lady who had become his favorite correspondent.

  “May I take you driving tomorrow?” he asked. “Provided, of course, that the weather is not too bad.”

  “I should like that above all things,” Charlotte was about to say, but she was shrewd in the ways of stalking a man and so she affected disappointment instead. “What a pity, Denbigh. I am already engaged to go out driving.”

  The duke’s interest in her quickened even more. Of course she would have many beaux. “Then the day after,” he said eagerly.

  He watched anxiously as Charlotte pretended to sort through the busy appointment book of her mind. Then her face cleared. “That would be splendid.”

  “Shall we say four-thirty?”

  “Yes, four-thirty.”

  Later that night, Charlotte sat on the end of Verity’s bed and listened, appalled, as that young lady recited all of the things she had written to the duke about.

  “A visit to the Tower…and a ride on the Catch-me-who-can? How could you, Verity? That is the behavior of a rustic.”

  Verity flushed with annoyance. “My yokelism does not seem to have prevented him from enjoying my letters.”

  “If only you had had the wit to write them more like me and less like you!”

  “If I had written them like you, they wouldn’t have fetched him,” said Verity tartly.

  Charlotte was about to say something very nasty. But the thought that the evening she had just spent would have been so much more pleasurable had Verity been there to protect her from the dragons stopped her.

  “Now you are furious with me,” she said instead. “Dear Verity, give me a smile. We are friends, are we not?”

  Verity looked at Charlotte’s pleading blue eyes. No one was completely selfish and Charlotte did really seem to want to be friends.

  “Of course we are,” said Verity, stretching out her hand. Charlotte took it and gave it a squeeze. Verity was such a good foil. No beauty there, so no competition. Yes, Verity could be very useful in the entrapment of Denbigh.

  The duke was cantering along Rotten Row the following day. It was a beautiful morning and he appeared to have the park to himself. The air was warm and sweet and smelled of a mixture of soot and new leaves and grass. He glanced up at the clear blue sky, reflecting that one hardly ever saw a completely blue sky anywhere in England at any time of the year. A large parrot sailed slowly over his head. He reined in his mount and watched it. It was gray and red but had a ridiculous gold fringe of downy feathers on each leg. He could see it quite plainly now, for it circled round and round over his head, getting lower each time.

  Someone has lost their pet bird, was his first thought; and then his next was, Perhaps that is Mrs. Manners’s parrot.

  The parrot stopped circling and began to fly off slowly in the direction of Park Lane. He set his horse in motion again and followed it. It sailed across a wide expanse of grass, then circled down again and landed on the shoulder of a female sitting on a bench.

  The lady had her head bent and was wearing quite a modish bonnet. Mrs. Manners, he thought. He dismounted and started to lead his horse toward her. It struck him again that she must have been very fond of Manners to use his name instead of keeping her title. He did not know that Mr. Manners had insisted she do so, even after his death, that having been a provision in his will.

  There was a large striped cat rolling in the grass in front of the bench, while a little French greyhound frolicked about. Tray and Peter of the letters, he thought.

  The parrot flew off again, and she was bending down to pet the cat as he approached. He swept off his hat and bowed.

  “Good morning!”

  Verity looked up, and they both stared at each other in surprise. The duke was surprised to find not Charlotte, but a young lady with clever black eyes in quite a pretty face. Verity found herself looking at the gentleman from the posting house, the one she had dreamed about when she wrote to Denbigh.

  “I thought you were Mrs. Manners,” he said. “I am Denbigh, and you must be Miss Bascombe.”

  Verity shook his hand, all the time wondering at the strange coincidence that this handsome duke should be the man she had thought about so often.

  “May I?” He gestured toward the place on the bench beside her.

  “Certainly.” Verity half rose, bobbed a token curtsy, and sat down again, her face a little flushed.

  “Oh, don’t do that,” she cried, seeing the duke had lifted Peter onto his lap. “The cat will bite you.”

  The duke merely smiled at her lazily and stroked the cat, who half closed its eyes and began to purr.

  He crossed his booted legs at the ankle, and the greyhound lay down and rested its chin on his boots and looked worshipfully up into his face.

  “Goodness!” exclaimed Verity. “You do have a way with animals.”

  “I had not noticed it before. These seem particularly well behaved. I saw the parrot.”

  “Pretty Polly likes flying about,” said Verity. “But it always returns.”

  “Is it male or female?”

  “I confess I do not know. I forgot to ask the veterinarian. Polly is a name given to both sexes of parrot, I understand.”

  “Mrs. Manners is extremely fond of them.”

  “Yes,” said Verity, for what else could she say?

  “I am sorry I did not invite you to my party last night. But I was not aware of your existence until Mrs. Manners spoke of you.”

  “It does not matter,” said Verity. She gave a charming laugh that lit up her expressive face and made her black eyes shine. “I believe I have been to enough parties, fetes, drums, routs, and ridottos to last me a lifetime.”

  “I am taking Mrs. Manners driving tomorrow. I would be honored if you would join us.” Now why had he said that? he thought with irritation. Much better to have Charlotte to himself.

  Then he realized the odd Miss Bascombe was surveying him with amusement. Verity was thinking how surprised the duke would be if he could guess how very angry Charlotte would become if Verity had dared to accept his invitation. “I have some sewing to do, Your Grace. I am very honored by your invitation but must decline.”

  “Very well. As you will. Do you stay in London for very long, Miss Bascombe?”

  “Not very long now,” said Verity. “My father has gone to Scotland and our home is locked up. I wait daily for news of his return so that I may leave.”

  “Indeed! You seem almost anxious to shake the dust of London from your heels.”

  “It will be pleasant to be home again,” said Verity wistfully. Now that she had met him, she yearned for home. She did not want to stay and watch him court Charlotte, although she would not admit this reason to herself.

  “Have you been to Scotland yourself, Miss Bascombe?”

  “No, Your Grace. I would be interested to visit the Highlands one day, to see, you know, if it is all as romantical as Mr. Scott would have us believe.”

  “I have been to the north, as far as Inverness. I think Dr. Johnson was nearer the mark than Mr. Scott.”

  Verity laughed. “I think the doctor’s famous dislike of the Scotch was largely to tease his friend, Mr. Boswell, you know, when he said things like the noblest thing a Scotchman ever sees is the high road to England, or something like that.”

  “To return to your evident desire to go home,” he said. “Does that mean you do not like London?”

  “Oh, I like it immensely. There is so much to see. I went to the British Museum the other day. It was fascinating, although our German guide raced us past everything at a great rate, gabbling out descriptions in broken English. Why must they go on as if it is a race rather than a visit to a museum?”

  “Because they collect tips from each party at the end of the tour. The more parties they race through the building, the more money they have
at the end of the day.”

  “How simple. I never thought of that.”

  They fell silent. It was an oddly companionable silence. The cat purred, the dog snored gently, and the parrot landed on the grass in front of them and regarded them with a quizzical eye.

  At last, Verity stole a glance at his profile, noticing the proud nose, the square chin, and the firm mouth. His eyelashes, she saw, were almost as long and silky as Charlotte’s. Most odd in a man. He had drawn off his gloves and the hand idly stroking the cat was white and strong.

  “Where do you go this evening?” he asked, breaking the silence.

  Verity gave a little sigh. “A ball. At the Whitakers’.”

  “I may see you there. Mr. Whitaker is a friend of mine. He wrote to me in the country asking me to attend, but, at that time, I had no intention of coming to London.”

  “And what changed your mind, about coming to London, I mean?” asked Verity, eager for praise of her powers as a correspondent.

  He looked at her thoughtfully. “Mrs. Manners’s charming descriptions of the capital changed my mind,” he said.

  “Yes, she is a very good letter writer, is she not?” asked Verity, greedy for more praise.

  “Surprisingly so. They made me realize I had never known Mrs. Manners well at all.”

  Verity’s elation at his praise for the letters disappeared, leaving her in a sudden black depression. She wanted to cry out, “I wrote them. Charlotte barely knows how to write!”

  This is what comes of living in fantasy, thought Verity bitterly. Oh, if only my man from the posting house could be someone else. Aloud, she said quietly, “I must leave.”

  He put the cat on the grass, stood, and assisted her to her feet. Her hand trembled in his. “You are cold!” he exclaimed. “I have kept you here too long.”

  “No,” said Verity. “I shall do very well. A brisk walk is all I need.”

  The great parrot hopped up onto her shoulder and nestled against her bonnet, making odd crooning sounds. Verity dropped an awkward curtsy, for it was hard to curtsy with the weight of the parrot throwing her off balance, and then walked away, with the little greyhound prancing at her heels and the cat slouching along behind.