Pretty Polly

by M C Beaton

  He watched her go. She was small but had a very good figure, he thought idly. Her hair had been hidden by her bonnet and cap, for it was the fashion to cover the hair with a lace cap and then put a poke bonnet with a huge brim on top of it. He wondered what color it was. She moved with a fluid, sensual grace. When her cloak had fallen open as he talked to her, he hadn’t been able to help noticing that her breasts were high and pointed.

  He turned about to untether his horse. He saw the figure of Lady Wythe approaching and waited politely until she slowly came up to him. By the time she reached his side, Verity was a small figure in the distance, disappearing into the shadow of the lodge at Park Lane.

  “I see I have missed Miss Bascombe,” said the old countess crossly. “What a pity. I do enjoy our chats. Such a fine girl and so intelligent.”

  “Hardly a girl anymore, Countess.”

  “She is, I believe, twenty-four, still very young to one such as I. When I talk to her, I wonder if we have become worn-out and past our use. The aristocracy, I mean. Miss Bascombe is the daughter of a country lawyer. She has a tough, quick mind combined with warmth, courtesy, and kindness. She makes all the other young misses seem empty and vapid. A great pity I missed her.”

  The duke smiled. “I never thought to hear of you being so taken with anyone. You normally have an acid tongue.”

  The countess gave an infinitesimal shrug. “What did you make of the Manners female?”

  “Very beautiful.”

  “And that is all you saw? Men!”

  He was torn between irritation and amusement. “I shall no doubt learn more about Mrs. Manners when I see more of her.”

  “There isn’t anything more to learn,” said the countess. “What you saw last night was it.”

  “My dear Lady Wythe, when a lady is as beautiful as Mrs. Manners undoubtedly is, she seems to positively encourage uncharitable comments.”

  The countess sniffed. “Run along with you, do. You’ll find out soon enough, Denbigh. You’ll find out!”

  Chapter Five

  Verity did not have an opportunity to tell Charlotte of her meeting with the duke until they were seated together in the carriage taking them to the Whitakers’ ball.

  And now that she did have the opportunity, she found she was strangely reluctant to say anything. Verity was wearing the burgundy silk gown. She knew it became her better than anything she had ever worn before. She had made burgundy silk roses to ornament her hair. If she told Charlotte about the meeting, then Charlotte would ply her with questions and exclaim and criticize and might even send her home!

  But when they left their wraps in a downstairs room in the Whitakers’ mansion that had been assigned to the female guests and Verity saw the full glory of Charlotte’s ensemble, she began to feel very silly. Who in their right mind was going to notice a provincial girl in a homemade gown when faced with such magnificence?

  Charlotte was wearing a gown of silver spider gauze over a white slip. On her golden curls was a cunning headdress of silver gauze embroidered with silver thread and seed pearls. The gown was cut very low to show the whiteness of Charlotte’s skin and the excellence of her bust.

  Verity was only human. She had felt stabs of jealousy before, but never such a raging torrent as the bitter feeling of envy that now engulfed her. Jealousy was not a green-eyed monster, she thought. It was red in tooth and claw, with glaring, fiery eyes.

  Her own gown seemed too demure and too modest in comparison. She tried to pull the neckline lower, but it would not move an inch.

  Feeling dowdy and miserable, Verity trailed after Charlotte up the stairs to the ballroom. The duke would undoubtedly be there. He would dance with Charlotte. He would tell her of the meeting in the park. They would laugh together about this gauche companion who had not even mentioned the matter. Perhaps Charlotte would give that tinkling laugh of hers and tell Denbigh that her little companion was obviously smitten with him.

  Verity went hot and cold by turns.

  Mr. and Mrs. Whitaker were a young couple, good ton, but not very rich. They were very popular because they were scatterbrained and amusing. The ballroom was quite shadowy because the Whitakers had economized on candles. They had also economized by having country wildflowers to decorate the ballroom instead of expensive hothouse flowers. They had gone into the country themselves to pick them. But since neither could tell flower from weed, it was a very odd assortment that filled the vases and pots. They had also picked armfuls of bluebells, unaware that bluebells do not stay fresh for very long after they are picked, and so there were great vases of sadly wilting blooms standing in corners.

  Mr. George Wilson was one of the first people Verity saw when she entered the ballroom. He would be here, she thought crossly. He would monopolize her. She would have no chance of dancing with the duke. And sure enough, Mr. Wilson came bounding over to secure two dances, one of them being the supper dance. He was so open and friendly that Verity began to feel ashamed of herself. How could she even begin to dream of competing with Charlotte? She decided she had been dazzled by the duke’s title and because he had turned out to be that gentleman of the posting house she had woven so many fantasies around.

  Verity decided that the best thing to do was to forget about the duke and Charlotte completely, be as pleasant and kind to Mr. Wilson as she could possibly be, and try to enjoy the dance. Verity knew she danced well. She tried not to let the fact that Charlotte danced even better enter her mind, but enter it it did. For Charlotte was having the honor of being the first lady the Duke of Denbigh asked to dance. It was a waltz. Verity wrenched her eyes from the beautiful spectacle they presented, shut her ears to the admiring comments about her, and finally succeeded in beginning to have a tolerably pleasant evening.

  Verity’s good intentions received a setback when the duke took Charlotte in to supper. She was seated well away from them, so she could only guess that they were getting along famously. She could not see the duke’s expression, but she could see the radiant one on Charlotte’s beautiful face.

  The duke found himself being amazed at the gush of sheer trivia that was issuing from Charlotte’s perfect pink lips. He did not have to say much, for Charlotte barely paused for breath. At last, when she had just finished a very long anecdote about going to a rout where the Prince Regent had looked at her so, he asked mildly, “I believe Miss Bascombe is present.”

  “Yes.”

  “She appears very fond of your pets.”

  “Miss Bascombe is dutiful and does her best to help me. As you will not be dancing with her, you will not meet her this evening. But you will be able to meet her tomorrow when you call to take me driving.”

  “And why will I not be dancing with her?” asked the duke, his mind registering surprise that for some reason Miss Bascombe had not told Mrs. Manners about their meeting in the park.

  Charlotte giggled. “You forget. She is only a lawyer’s daughter.”

  “But that does not give her two left feet or a squint.” He was about to add that Miss Bascombe danced beautifully, but if he had guessed aright, he was not supposed to know what she looked like.

  Charlotte was thinking rapidly that it was better one of the duke’s dances should be taken up by Verity than by one of her rivals.

  “Of course, Miss Bascombe would be thrilled if you danced with her. It would be something for her to remember for the rest of her life.”

  That artless remark almost made the duke decide not to ask Verity, but after supper he saw her sitting alone at the end of a row of chairs. A friend stopped him and by the time he had finished talking, the sets for the dance had been made up. The duke looked down at Verity and said ruefully, “I was on my way to ask you to dance but was waylaid, and now I am too late.”

  He sat down beside her. Her skin had a warm honey color and was flattered by the deep wine color of her gown. She sat as calmly and correctly as any young miss should, and yet there was a vitality and a sensuality emanating from her that he found exciti
ng.

  “I gather you did not tell Mrs. Manners of our meeting in the park,” he began.

  “I didn’t? It must have slipped my mind,” said Verity in polite accents.

  “Very unflattering,” he replied with a laugh.

  “Not really so unflattering. You see, I did not have an opportunity to say anything, but I suppose I had better now or it will appear strange.”

  “I should think it is of little consequence. I did not say anything about our meeting myself.”

  They smiled at each other like conspirators and then the duke felt a qualm of unease. He should not be siding with Miss Bascombe against Charlotte, even in such a trivial matter.

  “You told me you had had an exhausting round of social events, Miss Bascombe,” he went on. “You will, therefore, have seen little of London apart from the West End.”

  “Oh, no,” said Verity. “I went to Euston one day to see Mr. Trevithick’s engine, and then to the Tower, and I have been to St. Paul’s churchyard to look at the secondhand bookstalls and…”

  Her voice faltered and died away as she found him looking down at her quizzically.

  “Ah, that is the reason Mrs. Manners went to all those unfashionable places she mentioned in her letters,” he teased.

  “Mrs. Manners was kind to go,” said Verity miserably, feeling as if she were falling deeper into a black pit of lies. “But I would not say anything about it to her. It was not very fashionable of me to want to go to such places.”

  “Did you go to that dinner in honor of Monk Lewis?” he said.

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “And how did you find our notorious author?”

  “Very disappointing,” said Verity. “I had expected a tall, brooding, gloomy creature instead of a funny little man with odd eyes.”

  “Like those of an insect?”

  “Yes, that is exactly what I…. er, what Mrs. Manners said.” Verity sounded a trifle breathless.

  “Mrs. Manners wrote enchanting letters to me,” he said, watching her face. “When I read them, I felt I had never really known her. That was why I came to London, you know, to meet the authoress of those letters.”

  “And now you have,” said Verity, a trifle crossly.

  “Oh, yes, now I think I have.”

  “Charles!”

  The duke looked up in irritation at a tall man who had approached them and then his face lit up. “James… James Castleton! How wonderful to see you. I thought you were at the wars.”

  “I was finally given some leave.”

  “Miss Bascombe, may I present my friend, Lord James Castleton. James, Miss Bascombe.”

  Verity held out her hand and Lord James dropped a light kiss on the back of her glove. He was tall and thin, with a rakish, mobile face and thick, springy black hair.

  “Are you in London just for the Season, Miss Bascombe?” asked Lord James.

  “I am not here precisely for the Season,” said Verity carefully. “I am not coming out. My old friend, Mrs. Manners, was kind enough to invite me for a short stay.”

  “Oho!” said Lord James, cocking a quizzical eyebrow at the duke.

  The duke looked annoyed, so Lord James added quickly, “We must meet tomorrow, Charles. In the afternoon, say?”

  “No, alas, I am engaged to drive out with Mrs. Manners. But I have no plans for the evening.”

  The dance was over. Verity saw Mr. Wilson striding purposefully toward her. She rose and said, “I must join my partner. Good evening, Your Grace, my lord.”

  Both men watched her go. Verity was uncomfortably aware of this and behaved in a very warm and charming manner to Mr. Wilson.

  “Attractive little thing,” said Lord James, “but clever. Got clever eyes.”

  “Yes, she is very clever,” said the duke, but he was startled that Lord James found Verity attractive and that her present partner appeared to be quite bewitched by her. He glanced around the ballroom as if hoping a glimpse of the dazzling Charlotte would overshadow Verity’s strange appeal. Charlotte was tripping gaily through the steps of a country dance. She looked a picture of beauty. He found his eyes straying back to Verity.

  Verity was glad to get to bed that night. “Charles,” her mind kept repeating over and over again. “His name is Charles.”

  She heard a light step in the corridor. Charlotte!

  Charlotte came in and walked forward and perched on the edge of the bed. “That was a successful evening,” she said with a yawn. “So successful I forgot to tell you of your conquest, dear Verity.”

  “My conquest?”

  “Mr. Wilson.”

  “Yes,” said Verity, feeling depressed. “He is a very amiable man.”

  “Slyboots!” Charlotte giggled. “Mr. Wilson asked my permission to call on you tomorrow. I felt quite like a dowager. He is eminently suitable for you. In fact, a step up in the world. The Suffolk Wilsons, you know.”

  “Do you mean Mr. Wilson is going to propose marriage?”

  “What else? His mama is said to be a tartar, so be sure she does not ride to town as soon as the engagement is announced to horsewhip you.”

  “I don’t want to marry Mr. Wilson,” said Verity firmly.

  “Good heavens, why not, you silly thing?”

  “Mr. George Wilson,” said Verity clearly, “is a worthy young man, pleasant, amiable, and dull. If I had wanted to marry a dull young man, I could have done so a long time ago. Furthermore, I am not in love with him.”

  “You should remember your position in life,” said Charlotte sharply. “You cannot expect anything higher. This talk of love is ridiculous.”

  “But are you not in love with Denbigh?”

  “Of course I am. I dote on the man. Fortunately, he is a wealthy duke, which is one of his greatest attractions. Do think seriously about Mr. Wilson, Verity dear, and remember that you cannot expect to do better.”

  She kissed Verity on the cheek and left the room.

  After she had gone, Verity scrubbed her cheek angrily with her handkerchief. She began to feel remorseful about all the harsh things she had said about George Wilson. She dreaded the forthcoming proposal. Her other suitors in the past had not appeared to be in love with her. They had proposed, or so Verity believed, because she was of their social rank and endowed with a comfortable dowry. But Mr. Wilson had begun to show alarming signs of being in love—or of thinking he was in love.

  Verity tried to sleep, but she tossed and turned for long stretches of the night, wondering how to turn down Mr. Wilson and yet leave that gentleman’s pride intact.

  Mr. Wilson was to call at two in the afternoon. Charlotte had quite made up her mind that Verity had come to her senses, for all Verity would say on the matter was that she wanted to see Mr. Wilson alone and did not need a chaperon. Charlotte expansively told her to use the Yellow Saloon and to entertain Mr. Wilson with any refreshments she cared to order.

  Verity went downstairs to the kitchen and ordered a good bottle of wine to be decanted, biscuits, and fruit. “But do tell the servants to make sure Pretty Polly does not get any grapes,” she added. “That bird is thoroughly spoiled and has been gorging itself on all the wrong things.”

  James, the second footman, was carrying a bowl of hothouse black grapes to the Yellow Saloon when the parrot sailed down, claws outstretched. “No, you don’t!” cried James, darting into the saloon and slamming the door in the parrot’s face.

  Pretty Polly crouched behind a marble bust of Socrates in the hall and sulked. After a while, it dropped off to sleep. The opening of the street door awakened it.

  Mr. Wilson was ushered in. Pretty Polly cocked its head to one side and watched as the double doors of the Yellow Saloon were thrown open.

  “I shall tell Miss Bascombe you are here,” Pomfret said.

  Mr. Wilson strode up and down the Yellow Saloon, wondering whether to get down on one knee or not. He knew one thing: He would be heartily glad when the whole business was over. He thought of his mother’s furious face and
quailed.

  He turned about to take another walk down the long room and saw the huge parrot, standing on the console table, greedily eating grapes. Mr. Wilson had affected to like the pets for Verity’s sake. But privately he detested them. He was prepared to let her bring the dog and the cat to the marriage. The cat could go to the kitchens to keep down the mice, and the dog could go to the kennels where dogs belonged. But the parrot would have to go.

  “Shoo!” he said, flapping his arms. Pretty Polly paid no attention. “Bloody parrot,” said Mr. Wilson. “Just you wait!”

  The great parrot raised its head and looked at him. “Pretty Polly,” it squawked. And then came Verity’s voice. “Mr. George Wilson is a worthy young man. Pleasant, amiable, and dull. If I had wanted to marry a dull young man, I could have done so a long time ago. Furthermore, I am not in love with him.” The parrot gave a genteel cough and returned to the grapes.

  The specter of an angry mother that had haunted Mr. Wilson’s mind was suddenly replaced by a bright image of a loving and caring mother who hung on his every word and pandered to his every whim.

  The parrot wrenched off a little bunch of grapes, hopped onto the floor, and walked under the sofa to enjoy the fruit in peace.

  Verity came into the room, looking wan and tired. “Good day to you, Mr. Wilson. Please be seated.”

  “I cannot, ma’am,” said Mr. Wilson. “I have merely called to tell you I am returning to the country to my dear mother.”

  Verity smiled her relief. “How very courteous of you.”

  “Yes, it is, isn’t it?” said Mr. Wilson inanely. “Mrs. Manners seemed to have the ridiculous idea that I meant to propose to you. Can you think of anything more laughable?”

  “Yes, I can, Mr. Wilson. Many things.”

  “But I said to myself, Miss Bascombe is a lady of good sense and well aware of her station in life. She would never be presumptuous enough to expect a proposal of marriage from one such as I.”