Pretty Polly

by M C Beaton

  “Ah, but I had to in order to give you a truthful explanation. Do you hope to marry, Miss Bascombe?”

  “You are blunt. There is no other career open to a gently bred female.”

  “And yet you have not really answered my question. The truth, Miss Bascombe!”

  The truth was that if she could not marry him, then she really did not think she wanted to marry anyone.

  “I am comfortably situated at home, Your Grace, and am fortunate in that I have no need to marry. Papa is trying to force my hand by saying that he means to marry again himself. That is because he fears for me. He thinks any woman who does not marry and have children is doomed to unhappiness.”

  “But you do not?”

  “I think to be married to someone one does not really care for might be a very great unhappiness. Better to remain single.”

  “Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “I think we are both very fortunate. Here comes our happy couple. Do you attend the Cunninghams’ affair tonight?”

  “I do not know, Your Grace. Mrs. Manners says where we are to go.”

  “Then I shall ask her. There is to be dancing, you know, and I have not yet had the pleasure of a dance with you.”

  Charlotte and Lord James came up to them, obviously well pleased with each other’s company. Verity’s heart gave a little surge of hope. She would rather the duke remained unmarried than watch him propose to Charlotte.

  But on the road back to London, the duke once more devoted himself to Charlotte, teasing her and making her laugh. Lord James sat moodily with his arms crossed, staring out at the passing countryside. From time to time, Verity addressed some remark to him, but he answered her in an abstracted way.

  She was glad when the carriage once more swung into Berkeley Square. The day was still sunny and warm, and Gunter’s, the confectioner at number seven, was doing a brisk trade in ices.

  Before the gentlemen left, Charlotte said they would be at the Cunninghams’ that evening.

  “Very successful, indeed.” Charlotte sighed happily as she made her way upstairs. “A duke and a lord and both for the asking. But a duchess is such a good title, don’t you think, Verity? Verity!”

  But Verity had gone ahead to her room, and the slamming of her door was Charlotte’s only reply.

  Chapter Seven

  Sir Richard Cunningham was a member of Parliament. Verity hoped that this introduction to political circles would provide her with enough interest to take her mind off the Duke of Denbigh.

  But it turned out to be very much like any other London ball held during the Season. Ballroom draped in rose silk, banks of hothouse flowers against the walls, music by Neil Gow and his fiddlers, and catering by Gunter. The ladies simpered and the gentlemen stared. The Cunninghams were parvenus, and a line of improbable-looking ancestors looked down from the walls. Sir Richard had bought portraits of everyone else’s ancestors to claim as his own. There was even a Haitian prince, his brown skin gleaming against a pink silk and gold-embroidered coat of the last century. Harriet wondered how the Cunninghams described him and how they had come by the portrait. Had there been a sale at some embassy? And would the Haitians not have had something to say about a member of their royal household decorating the walls of an M.P.’s home? Verity recognized the prince, having seen a steel engraving of him in a library book describing his visit to London some forty years before.

  She saw Lady Wythe sitting with the dowagers and went to join her. “Why do the Cunninghams have a Haitian prince among their supposed ancestors?” asked Verity.

  “Now how do you know they are not really the Cunningham ancestors?” asked the old dowager, looking amused.

  “Mrs. Manners told me that their hunt round the salesrooms for ancestors is well known.”

  “Yes, for once her gossip is correct. I myself asked them about the prince. Sir Richard became very fidgety and claimed the prince was an American Indian who had once saved his life. Such a liar! No wonder he is in the House of Commons. He gets along famously with all the other liars, hence his popularity.”

  “But people in society will cut their own relatives in the street for being too unfashionable. What, then, is the charm of the Cunninghams?”

  “Money. Sir Richard has a great many woolen manufactories in the north. He bought his title and favor at court. He lives here in Grosvenor Square and entertains lavishly. He is so vulgar and pushing that everyone feels comfortable about despising him while accepting his hospitality. He makes even the minor gentry feel superior, hence his success. I have noticed, Miss Bascombe, that from the first time I met you, you appear to take these grand affairs in your stride. I would have thought you would have found them quite intimidating after Market Basset.”

  “I have been to the assemblies in Bath,” said Verity abstractedly, her eyes searching the room. “It is much the same thing.”

  “If you are looking for Denbigh,” said Lady Wythe, “then you are searching in the wrong direction. He is over there on your right.”

  Verity’s head turned to the right as if being jerked round on wires. The duke was wearing a black evening coat. His cravat was beautifully tied, and a diamond pin blazed from among its snowy folds. His knee breeches and white silk stockings showed the strength of his thighs and the muscles in his legs. His golden hair was pomaded and gleamed in the light shed by hundreds of candles. “What a truly magnificent creature,” murmured the countess.

  Verity looked from the duke around the rest of the room at the haughty, beautiful, elegant ladies. Charlotte was over in a corner, talking to a group of men. Her hair, as golden as the duke’s, was artlessly dressed in a disarray of artistic curls and topped with a little tiara of diamonds. Around her white neck shone a diamond necklace. Her gown was of simple white muslin worn over a rose-colored silk underdress.

  Verity was wearing a gown of old-gold silk. In the privacy of her room, she had felt she looked very fine, but now she felt sadly diminished by the fresh pretty whites and pastel muslins all about her.

  The duke set out toward Charlotte, but Lord James was there before him, soliciting Charlotte to dance. He turned about, his eyes raking the room and then falling on Verity.

  “He is going to ask you to dance,” said Lady Wythe.

  “Yes,” said Verity. “Since he could not reach the mistress in time, he comes in search of the companion.”

  “Do not be silly. Denbigh is not the slightest bit interested in Mrs. Manners and your common sense should tell you so.”

  Verity’s intellect certainly told her so, but her jealous emotions told her at the same time that no man in his right mind would look at her with such a beauty as Charlotte Manners around.

  And then before the duke could reach Verity, a young man appeared in front of her asking her to dance. There was nothing Verity could do but accept. Had she refused him, then the social laws would have forced her to refuse to stand up with any other man who asked her.

  It was a country dance that lasted about half an hour. It was followed by another country dance, and, to Verity’s extreme frustration, she found her hand claimed for that one as soon as the first was over. Good manners helped her to behave prettily to her partners. Verity had rapidly become a well-known figure in society because of her outings to Hyde Park with the strange assortment of pets. She had gradually become popular with the gentlemen without quite being aware of the fact.

  Lady Wythe took great satisfaction in watching Verity’s success. But Verity was not enjoying herself. She had promised herself one dance with the duke before putting him from her thoughts.

  She was taken in to supper by an ebullient colonel who talked military matters during the whole meal and who, despite her silence, seemed greatly taken with her.

  The first dance after supper was to be a waltz. Verity longed to waltz with the duke, to feel his arm at her waist, to have that memory to take back with her to Market Basset to warm the long, spinster years ahead.

  People were beginning to rise from the supper tables
to go back to the ballroom. The colonel talked on. The duke disappeared, then Charlotte, then Lord James, and still the colonel talked. At last, he looked around in amazement at the nearly empty room and said, “By George, Miss Bascombe, my next partner will be looking for me.”

  As Verity entered the ballroom, the duke was circling the floor with Charlotte in his arms. Her radiant face was turned up to his. His arm was at her waist.

  Verity could not bring herself to dance with anyone else. She quietly moved away to the end of the long room, behind the banks of flowers, to where long curtains hung at the windows.

  She slipped behind the curtains and found herself in an embrasure. Through the glass, she could make out the black shapes of sooty trees in the garden. She stood there for a long time, not wanting to go back to the ballroom until the waltz was finished.

  Verity did not notice that the trees were bending down to the ground under a fierce wind. The air of the ballroom felt hot and suffocating. She wanted a breath of fresh air. The long windows opened outward like doors. She pushed one wide open and then gasped in alarm. A tearing gale swept past her, sending the curtains billowing out. She tried to close the window, but the force of the gale screaming past her made it impossible. Behind her in the ballroom were shrieks of dismay as all of the candles were blown out and the room was plunged into darkness.

  And then a hand pulled her back and the duke’s voice said, “Allow me, Miss Bascombe.”

  He wrenched the window shut and then called into the ballroom, “The window is closed. You may light the candles again.”

  Then he let the curtain fall and faced Verity, his face a white blur somewhere above her own.

  “I did not know it was so very windy,” said Verity. “I am sorry.”

  He found he still had a hand on her shoulder, but he did not take it away.

  “I did want that dance with you, Miss Bascombe, but I could not get near you.”

  “It does not matter,” said Verity, wishing he would take his hand away from her bare shoulder, for his touch was making her tremble.

  “It matters very much to me,” he said softly. He bent quickly and kissed her on the mouth.

  It was only a brief kiss, but it rocked Verity to the soles of her feet. Shock was quickly followed by a wave of searing sweet passion mixed with yearning.

  “How disgraceful we are,” he said lightly. “Come, Miss Bascombe. I shall call on you tomorrow.” He pulled aside the curtain. The ballroom was already half lit. Footmen with long tapers were scurrying back and forth, lighting the candles. The end of the ballroom where they stood was still shadowy enough to allow them to walk through the curtains into the ballroom again without everyone noticing.

  Charlotte, however, saw them. She saw the dazed look on Verity’s face and the tender one on the duke’s. The fact that Denbigh might propose to the undistinguished Verity struck her like a hammer blow. How society would laugh at her! A middle-class nobody snatching such a prize from under her very nose.

  Her first thought was to turn Verity out of the house that very night. But people might learn of it, the duke might learn of it, and that would not help matters. Charlotte continued to dance and to flirt while her mind worked busily.

  The gale had blown itself out by the time they made their way the short distance to Berkeley Square. Verity longed to bury her head under the blankets and sleep and sleep. But Charlotte wound an affectionate arm about her waist as soon as they were indoors. “We shall have tea, my friend,” she said, “and you shall tell me all about your success.”

  “My success. It was as nothing compared to yours, Charlotte.”

  “Fiddle,” said Charlotte over her shoulder as she led the way into the drawing room. “My only success was my waltz with Denbigh. How close he held me! Quite shocking of him. Oh, I am so in love with him, Verity, it would break my heart were anything to happen to ruin my chances.”

  “Are you really?” asked Verity sadly. “Are you really in love with him?”

  Charlotte leaned forward and gazed into Verity’s eyes. “Oh, I am so very much in love with him. I dream about him constantly. My blood is in a fever. I say his name over and over again to myself. But you cannot know what I mean.”

  Verity felt Charlotte spoke the truth. She spoke of feelings that only a woman deeply in love could experience. If Verity had gone into Charlotte’s bedroom and had read the romance on the bedside table, she would have read exactly the same words on page 102. But since Charlotte was describing Verity’s own feelings, she found it all too easy to believe her.

  “When I am married,” Charlotte went on, “you must come and live with us.”

  “Why, Charlotte? You will have a husband and a family.”

  “Because, Verity, I love you with all my heart. You are a good and loyal friend, and I know you would never do anything to cause me a moment’s distress. When you swore to help me in my pursuit of Denbigh, I felt comforted and sustained. Sometimes I feel so alone in the world.” Charlotte’s eyes glistened with tears as she threw her arms around Verity. “My dear friend, my very dear friend.”

  Verity patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. She desperately wanted to escape, but Pomfret came in with the tea tray.

  Over tea, Charlotte continued to smile caressingly at Verity and to praise her. A gray dawn was rising over London by the time Verity was at last able to escape to bed. She could feel the duke’s lips against her own. He had said he would call, but he could not mean marriage. Dukes did not marry the Verity Bascombes of this world.

  Charlotte picked up the novel from her bedside table and flicked through the pages, looking for more dialogue that might prove useful. A shadowy movement in the corner of the room caught her eye. She raised the candle and saw that it was the parrot.

  She threw the book at it, and it squawked and flew up on top of the wardrobe. Charlotte looked around for other things to throw but realized just in time that if the bird squawked again, Verity might come running and Charlotte had had enough of Verity for one night.

  She climbed out of bed and opened the door to let the bird out. As she lay in bed again, she found it was still sitting on the wardrobe, regarding her curiously.

  “Why don’t you flap along to dear Verity?” sneered Charlotte. She clasped her hands behind her head and said, “I wish I had never invited Verity. I can’t stand her with her oh-so-good ways. She’s been making sheep’s eyes at Denbigh. He can’t be interested in her. She’s such a drab little frump. I mean, compared to me, she’s nothing. I never liked her, anyway—Miss Prunes and Prisms. She only pretends to be intelligent, but she’s stupid really. And common! Only a country lawyer’s daughter. I feel soiled by having her around. I shall continue all this ‘dear Verity’ friendship act until I can gracefully send her packing. I think I did well. She swallowed every word. As if one such as I could ever love one such as she! But at least I have made sure she will no longer encourage Denbigh.”

  A shadow crossed Charlotte’s face as the parrot flew out of the room.

  The Duke of Denbigh presented himself in Berkeley Square at eleven o’clock the following morning. He had a shrewd idea that Charlotte would still be asleep at that time but hoped that Verity kept country hours.

  Pomfret took his card and ushered him into the Yellow Saloon.

  As the butler opened the double doors, the parrot flew over his head and perched on the back of a chair.

  Pomfret eyed Pretty Polly doubtfully. “I can try to get rid of that bird, Your Grace.”

  “Leave it,” said the duke. “I have a feeling the sooner I get used to having it around, the better.”

  When the butler had left, the duke took a piece of tissue paper out of his pocket and unwrapped a date, which he held out to the parrot. “I know she will want to take you with her,” he said, “so we may as well be friends.”

  Pretty Polly ate the date greedily, then flew to the duke’s shoulder and leaned against his head, making crooning noises.

  The duke scratched the par
rot’s head feathers and pictured again the amazement with which Verity would receive his proposal. That she might refuse him never entered his head.

  Verity came in followed by the dog and the cat. She looked pale and wan.

  “Pray be seated, Your Grace,” she said. “Mrs. Manners is unfortunately still asleep.”

  “I came to see you” said the duke, smiling at her in a way that made poor Verity’s heart lurch.

  “And how may I be of service to you?” asked Verity.

  He rose, lifted the parrot from his shoulder, and placed it on the back of a chair. He walked forward, took her hands in a strong clasp, and raised her to her feet.

  “I shall ask your father’s permission to pay my addresses to you as soon as he returns from Scotland.”

  Verity looked dazed. “Are you asking me to marry you?”

  “Yes.”

  She hung her head. He gave her hands an impatient tug.

  “What is your reply, Miss Bascombe?”

  “No, I cannot,” said Verity, pulling her hands away.

  The amazement he had fondly imagined would be on Verity’s face was on his own. “Why? Are you already engaged?”

  “No, Your Grace.”

  “Then why?”

  Verity longed to say yes, but loyalty to Charlotte would not let her. Made clumsy by grief and wretchedness, she said, “I don’t want to marry you.”

  “Then I shall take my unwanted presence away. But before I go, answer me this. You allowed me to kiss you, and you enjoyed it. Are you in the habit of accepting kisses from gentlemen when your intentions are not serious?”

  “Yes,” said Verity. “I am a terrible flirt. Gentlemen are always kissing me.”

  “Good day to you, Miss Bascombe,” he said in frosty accents.

  “Good day,” echoed Verity faintly, sitting down suddenly as if all the strength had gone out of her legs. She sat in numb despair, hearing his voice in the hall as he collected his hat and cane from Pomfret, hearing the door slam.

  She tried to tell herself she had done a noble thing. Charlotte was silly and vain, but she had pledged her friendship. But life was hard and cruel.