Pretty Polly

by M C Beaton

  “Do go away, Mr. Wilson,” said Verity. “You are beginning to sound like a coxcomb.”

  “I shall go. Yes, I shall go,” he said passionately. “My mother will find out how much her love and care of me is appreciated. Congratulations on your zoo,” he sneered as he reached the door. “Most versatile. Ho! Most cunning.”

  He stomped off in a fury.

  Verity slumped down in a chair, wondering whether to laugh or to cry.

  There was no sign of the parrot.

  Charlotte came dancing in wearing a large cap. She was enjoying her dowager act and had rehearsed a pretty speech to deliver to the happy pair. Her face fell when she saw Verity alone.

  “What happened?”

  “He was most rude,” said Verity. “Quite passionately so. He said his intention in calling was simply to tell me that he was removing to the country. He said he was sure that I could not possibly be expecting a proposal of marriage because that would mean he was stooping too ridiculously low—not in those words, but I am too distressed to remember the exact ones.”

  “Vulgar little mushroom,” said Charlotte venomously. “I never liked him, anyway. But don’t you see, Verity, it has happened to you! I tell you, the next proposal I get will be in the middle of Hyde Park. Come now, you must admit it is very weird and scary. For Mr. Wilson was head over heels in love with you last night. Where is that parrot?”

  “I do not know, Charlotte. What has Pretty Polly to do with it?”

  “Perhaps the bird can talk and is creeping into the room and saying vile things about us.”

  Verity laughed. “What a vivid picture! It is just an ordinary, speechless parrot. It makes a few noises, but it never talks. And if it could talk, dear Verity, it would squawk stupid things in a parrot voice. I remember seeing a parrot at a fair. It said things like ‘Pretty Polly,’ and then it whistled awfully, and then said ‘How de do’ about a hundred times over. It’s a parrot, not some sort of Iago.”

  “I suppose you are right. But what is happening in this house?”

  “I agree that when you do receive another proposal, it should be somewhere outside,” said Verity slowly. “But you know, we will probably find there is some person in society who has a spite against you and who gets wind of any proposal and visits the gentleman who is about to propose and tells him awful things about you. Because I am your friend, I received the same treatment.”

  “You have the right of it!” cried Charlotte. “This great beauty of mine is a curse. It creates such jealousy.”

  “Yes,” said Verity dismally, thinking of her own outrageous feelings. But the episode of Mr. Wilson had brought her to her senses. She, Verity Bascombe, had been in danger of becoming quite spoony about the Duke of Denbigh. Verity felt free now.

  “I think I shall take the pets out this afternoon for a long airing,” she said.

  “But you must be here when Denbigh calls,” said Charlotte. “I promised him an introduction.”

  “Now don’t tell me the great Duke of Denbigh is going to be upset because your companion is not around. I should think he would be delighted.”

  “But don’t you see, it makes things more conventional if I am chaperoned,” said Charlotte eagerly.

  “I suppose so,” said Verity, her heart sinking. “I will go early to the park and return in good time for his call.”

  Soon Verity was sitting on her favorite bench, telling Lady Wythe all about Mr. Wilson’s odd visit and how she had come to the conclusion that some ill-wisher was telling spiteful tales about Charlotte and herself. James, the second footman, was not present, having been sent on an errand by Charlotte.

  “Humph!” said the dowager. “There is a great deal of spiteful gossip about. But Mr. Wilson sounds to me like a man whose pride had been badly hurt. Are you sure you did not say something at the ball before the end that might have made him take you not only in dislike, but to wish revenge?”

  Verity shook her head.

  “Lady’s maids can be treacherous creatures. Do you have one?”

  “No. Mrs. Manners does, but her maid is an efficient, pleasant woman, well pleased with her post. Charlotte stole her away from young Lady Martin and is very proud of her prowess. The maid is also very clever and has told Mrs. Manners that the washes for the face she prepares contain a secret ingredient that will prolong the youth of the skin. It is in her interest to keep her mistress happy.”

  “All very odd. How goes Mrs. Manners’s pursuit of Denbigh, and how did you fare with him yesterday in the park?”

  “Denbigh calls today to take Mrs. Manners for a drive. I—I… did meet him here yesterday, but for some reason I neglected to tell Charlotte so.”

  “Well, that is because, for reasons best known to yourself, you wish to stay longer in London and you know that if Mrs. Manners suspected the slightest breath of intimacy between you and her duke, she would send you packing.”

  “The reason I am anxious to stay,” said Verity crossly, “is quite simple. My father has not yet returned from Scotland.”

  “But you have friends and neighbors in that place… Market Basset?”

  “Of course, but I could not leave the pets with Mrs. Manners or she would get rid of them, and I do not know of anyone who would house them.”

  “Mrs. Alder was at the Whitakers’ ball last night and said that Denbigh spent quite some time talking to you.”

  “Not very long. His friend, Lord James, interrupted us.”

  “I wonder how long it will take him to find out that his dear correspondent is none other than yourself.”

  “Lady Wythe, let us talk of something other than Denbigh and Mrs. Manners.”

  “As you will. Rumor has it that Beau Brummell is in sore debt and being pressed by his creditors. He has ceased to be a clever gambler and become so vain, he tried to make the Prince Regent unfashionable. Now, of course, he has discovered that a malicious wit of no particular background can rise to eminence by hanging on to Prinny’s coattails, but without the prince’s favor, he begins to appear quite rude in an ordinary way.”

  “But why should that be!” exclaimed Verity. “The Prince Regent is generally reviled and lampooned almost daily in the press and in the print shops.”

  “But he is the Prince Regent, you see,” said Lady Wythe, “and much as people sneer at royalty, they will fall over backward to seize a chance of getting close to court circles. Poor George. He has made a great many enemies.”

  They chatted amiably until a cloud covered the sun. Verity was reminded of the passing of time. She peered at the little fob watch pinned to her gown.

  “I must go,” she said, jumping to her feet, “or I will not have time to change!”

  Lady Wythe smiled as she watched Verity crossing the park. The parrot landed on Verity’s shoulder and the dog scampered at her heels. Verity turned around and looked back. She hesitated, walked on, and looked back again.

  The cat! She is missing the cat, thought Lady Wythe.

  Verity was wondering whether to go straight home and hope that Peter would find his own way back to Berkeley Square when Tray suddenly ran ahead to the line of trees in the park by Park Lane and began to circle one of the tallest sycamores, barking furiously.

  Looking up, Verity saw the cat out on a branch. It was a dizzying distance above the ground. “Peter!” she called. “Come down, you silly animal.” The cat let out a dismal howl that went straight to Verity’s sentimental heart.

  Lady Wythe came up accompanied by her elderly maid, Maria. Maria was usually sent off to take a walk when her mistress talked to Verity.

  “You had better go home and send one of the footmen back to climb up to get the cat,” said Lady Wythe. Peter howled again.

  “Oh, please, Lady Wythe. Please ask your maid to hold the dog’s leash while I climb up.”

  “Nonsense,” said the dowager, much shocked. “Most unladylike.”

  “Please!”

  “Oh, very well. But I shall go as far as Park Lane to see if I
can find one of my friends. You need a groom or a footman to help you, or a chimney sweep’s boy!”

  Verity pushed Pretty Polly off her shoulder. Then she untied her bonnet and placed it carefully at the foot of the tree along with her cloak. She grasped one of the lower branches and swung herself up. Determined not to look down, she climbed higher and higher, glad of her slight figure and light weight as the branches became thinner. She finally reached the branch on which the cat was crouched. “Come along, Peter,” she ordered. “There is nothing to fear.”

  The cat, its eyes dilated with terror, inched slowly toward her. Soon Verity was able to grasp the animal by the scruff of the neck and haul it onto her lap. “Now to get you down,” she said, stroking the cat gently. “It cannot be so very far. I came up quite easily.”

  Verity looked down and then let out a shriek of terror. The cat, sensing her fright, shivered and dug its claws into her gown. The ground seemed miles below. Verity clutched the thin trunk with one hand and the cat with the other and closed her eyes.

  Lady Wythe had stopped the Duke of Denbigh’s carriage in Park Lane. She had many friends and there were several other carriages she could have stopped, but when her sharp eyes spotted the duke in the distance, she had decided that no one else would do.

  The duke, on his way to keep his appointment with Charlotte, listened, amused, climbed down from his carriage, and walked into the park with Lady Wythe. He thought he would find Verity ineffectually trying to get as far as the lower branches.

  “Dear goodness! There she is!” cried the old countess, pointing aloft with her lavender silk parasol. The duke stared up at the tiny figure at the top of the tree. He shrugged off his coat, pulled off his Hessian boots, and began to climb.

  Lady Wythe watched his ascent with great satisfaction. “Do but observe the muscles in his legs, Maria,” she said to her maid. “Quite magnificent. Don’t stand there with your mouth open. Give me my double glass. This deserves a better look.”

  Verity felt a shaking in the tree under her and opened her eyes and risked a look down. The Duke of Denbigh was climbing nimbly and quickly toward her, the sun glinting on his golden hair. She watched, forgetting her fear, as he climbed closer.

  “Good day to you, Miss Bascombe,” he said politely when he was directly beneath her. “Pass that creature down to me and I will take it to safety and return for you.”

  Verity lifted the cat by the scruff of its neck and handed it down to the duke. “I think, Your Grace,” she said, “that if you climb down very slowly, I can find the courage to follow you.”

  He nodded and began to descend, holding the cat. Verity began to follow him. He wanted to look up to make sure she was safe, but did not dare. Very few ladies had adopted the modern fashion of wearing drawers and he did not want to embarrass Miss Bascombe. He finally swung nimbly down to the ground and put the cat on the grass. Verity had reached the lower branches. He held out his arms. “Jump, Miss Bascombe!”

  Verity leaped down into his arms, and he held her very tightly against him. Soft breasts met hard chest; soft curls tickled his nose. Emotion, sweet, sharp, and intense, stabbed through his body. Then he felt her body shaking and set her a little away from him. “You are safe now,” he said softly. “There is nothing to fear.”

  But Verity felt she had everything to fear. The violent, wanton yearning of her body startled and alarmed her. She put out a trembling hand to his shoulder and steadied herself for a moment. He covered her hand with his own, looking down at her with tenderness and a certain amount of surprise.

  All very satisfactory, thought Lady Wythe. Very!

  Chapter Six

  Charlotte was in a fever of worry and impatience. Four-thirty had come and gone. It was now a quarter to five. Tears filled her large blue eyes and poured down her cheeks. There was a curse on the house. She would sell it.

  A rumbling of carriage wheels sent her running to the window again. There was the duke in a racing curricle with his liveried tiger at the back. There beside him was a sooty and battered-looking Verity with the parrot on her shoulder.

  Charlotte ran out onto the front step. The duke assisted Verity down from the carriage. Charlotte noticed that he, too, had stains of soot on the cambric of his shirt, and bits of twigs were sticking onto his coat.

  “What happened, Your Grace?” she cried. “An accident?”

  “No, no, Charlotte,” said Verity wretchedly. “It was all my fault. Peter was stranded high in a tree in the park. I went to rescue him and became stuck. His Grace very kindly rescued me and the cat.”

  Charlotte closed her eyes. She wondered if it was possible to die from sheer rage.

  “Mrs. Manners,” she heard the duke say, his voice warm with concern, “let me assist you into the house. Do not be so upset. Miss Bascombe is quite safe.”

  He put his hand under her elbow, and despite her bad temper, Charlotte was quick to use the opportunity to lean against him.

  The duke was touched by Charlotte’s evident distress, which he put down to worry over Miss Bascombe.

  When they were all seated in the Yellow Saloon, the duke said, “As you can see from my dirt, I am not a fit escort for you, Mrs. Manners.”

  Charlotte rallied bravely. “Stay and take wine with me, Your Grace. We may have our drive on another day.”

  The greyhound walked past. Charlotte remembered she was supposed to dote on her pets. She held out her hand. The little greyhound shrank away, then ran to Verity and lay down at her feet.

  The duke accepted a glass of wine from Pomfret. He could not help noticing that as the butler went to offer Verity a glass, Charlotte caught his eye and gave an infinitesimal shake of her head.

  “Miss Bascombe was extremely brave,” said the duke, deliberately tactless. “I can think of no other lady in London who would have attempted to climb that tree.”

  Charlotte shook an admonitory finger at Verity and said in silvery tones, “You are a sad romp. Only look at the ruin of your gown. Pray go immediately and lie down, Miss Bascombe.”

  Verity stood, and the duke rose as well. She curtsied and said in a low voice, “I am deeply indebted to you, Your Grace.”

  “It was an honor to be of service to you, Miss Bascombe.”

  Verity left the room. The duke noticed that the parrot, dog, and cat went with her.

  “Your pets seem much attached to Miss Bascombe,” he said when the door had closed behind Verity.

  “Yes,” said Charlotte. “Poor Miss Bascombe is so awkward and ill at ease with humans that it is as well she has a talent for engaging the affection of dumb animals.”

  The duke thought quickly. What a spiteful remark! If he sprang to Verity’s defense, then Charlotte would send her packing. He wanted to see Miss Bascombe again. So he smiled at Charlotte and said, “Miss Bascombe is an engaging and clever lady. Her affection for you needs no explanation. Lord James was saying to me only the other night that Mrs. Manners must be an exceptional lady to have such a clever and devoted companion. It is always easy to command the loyalty of the stupid.”

  “Dear Verity.” Charlotte sighed. “I do not know what she would do without me.”

  Now my correspondent would never have said anything so vain, thought the duke. But aloud he said, “The weather has changed for the better. Perhaps I may be allowed to make up for today by driving you to Richmond Park on the morrow?”

  Charlotte’s eyes glittered with triumph. A long drive on a sunny day alone with the Duke of Denbigh! Great things could come of it.

  “I had another engagement,” she said cautiously, “but I could easily cancel it.”

  “I would not dream of upsetting your arrangements,” he cried.

  “It is nothing,” said Charlotte quickly. “At what time may I expect you?”

  “At ten in the morning.”

  Charlotte blinked. Ten in the morning seemed like the crack of dawn to her.

  “Very well, Your Grace,” she said with a smile. “Let us hope the weather remain
s fine.”

  Upstairs in her room, Verity looked gloomily at the pets. “If you knew what was good for you,” she told them sadly, “you would not stay in here. The storm is about to break.”

  For Verity was sure the minute the duke left, an enraged Charlotte would come rushing in.

  But although she heard the duke leave and waited a long time after that, there was no sign of Charlotte. At last, Charlotte’s maid entered with a message from her mistress that Miss Bascombe was to get ready to go out to the opera at eight o’clock.

  Feeling puzzled but relieved, Verity sat down at the dressing table and began to brush her hair. But the next feeling was one of sharp hope. Would the duke be there?

  But the duke was not at the opera that evening. As Charlotte and Verity were entering the theater, the duke was sitting opposite his friend, Lord James, in Watier’s. “Let me see if I have heard you aright,” Lord James was saying. “You want me to go to Richmond with you tomorrow. I am to pretend to be enamored of Miss Bascombe, but once we are on the outing, I must appear to switch my affections to Mrs. Manners.”

  “A small thing to ask,” said the duke equably. “Have some more of this excellent port.”

  “May one ask why?”

  “One may. The reason I returned to London was that Mrs. Manners sent me delightful and interesting letters. As you know, I once proposed marriage to her and was turned down. I had since come to think of her as greedy and empty-headed and congratulated myself on my escape. But the letters led me to believe I had been mistaken in her. She is, you must admit, very beautiful.”

  “Very.”

  “And so I returned to London. At first I thought Mrs. Manners was suffering from nerves and that was why she only spoke trivia. But when I spoke to Miss Bascombe, it dawned on me that it was more than likely Mrs. Manners had invited her old school friend to London in order to use her as a correspondent.”

  “But why?”

  “Because Mrs. Manners now wants my title and fortune. It is no little thing to be a duchess.”