Pretty Polly

by M C Beaton

  “What a bloody life!” said Verity, trying to relieve some of her despair by swearing.

  “Pretty Polly,” said the parrot.

  Verity stared at it. It put its head on one side and then began to speak in an excellent imitation of Charlotte’s trilling voice.

  “Why don’t you flap along to dear Verity? 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.”

  The parrot fell silent. Verity rose to her feet again, approached the parrot, and took it by the throat.

  “What did you say?” she demanded, shaking it.

  “Awk,” said Pretty Polly.

  “Answer me!” shouted Verity.

  The parrot looked at her with flat obsidian eyes.

  “Tol rol,” came Charlotte’s amused voice from the door. “I am glad to see you are human, Verity. The times I have felt like strangling that bird myself!”

  Verity swung around, fists clenched, eyes narrowed. “So it was all a trick to get me to refuse Denbigh, was it?”

  “What are you talking about? Refuse Denbigh? He is not likely to propose to you.”

  “Well, he did, this morning, just a few moments ago, and I refused him clumsily and rudely out of loyalty to you. Pretty Polly told me everything.”

  “Stoopid. The bird can’t say a word.”

  “Urk,” said the parrot obligingly.

  “Well, it did,” howled Verity. “And you said you felt soiled by having me around. You said I was common. You said all your pleas of friendship were so that I would not encourage Denbigh. You are a monster, Charlotte.”

  “Stop ranting and raving like a fishwife at this ungodly hour of the day. You belong in Bedlam. The parrot can’t talk, and I don’t believe for a minute that Denbigh proposed. You are ugly with your face all screwed up like that. Yes, ugly. As ugly as—as…that parrot. You can pack and get out and take those creatures with you, or I shall throw them all in the Serpentine! Get out!”

  “I was on my way to the park when Denbigh called,” said Verity. “I shall still go and make my farewells to Lady Wythe.”

  She pushed past Charlotte into the hall. “Pomfret!” Charlotte screamed from behind her. “Get this slut’s bags packed and have them corded and waiting in the hall.”

  James, the second footman, held open the door and started to follow Verity. “You stay where you are,” ordered Charlotte. “You are my servant, not hers!”

  Verity moved like a sleepwalker in the direction of Hyde Park. It was sunny and warm. She felt like a blob of black misery moving through the glory of the day.

  A hand came out and took the dog’s leash from her. She looked up and saw James, the second footman.

  “You must go back, James,” she cried. “You will lose your employ.”

  “I think it’s about time I returned to the country,” said James. “Mrs. Manners’s household does not suit me. If you will just walk ahead, ma’am. It don’t do to be seen walking side by side with a footman.”

  Verity’s eyes filled with tears and she blinked them away. She walked on quickly, hoping Lady Wythe would be at their usual bench.

  As she walked across the park, she felt a stab of relief when she saw the erect figure of the countess sitting on the bench. She quickened her pace. She would not distress the old lady with her troubles. She would simply make her dignified good-byes.

  “What ails you, child?” cried the countess, as Verity came up to her. “My dear, anything I can do to help. Please tell me.”

  Verity fell to her knees on the grass, all her brave resolutions to be dignified crumbling away, and buried her head in the countess’s lap and cried her eyes out, while the countess patted her arm and made soothing noises.

  At last, Lady Wythe said sharply, “Now, that is quite enough, Miss Bascombe. Blow your nose and then sit beside me and tell me all. At once!”

  Verity did as she was bid. In a halting voice, she told her story.

  Lady Wythe looked at the parrot, who was strolling up and down in front of them.

  “Are you sure you did not imagine it?” she said in a wondering voice. “That creature talk?”

  “It did.” Verity hiccupped. “Honestly. A clear imitation of Charlotte’s voice.”

  Lady Wythe poked the parrot in the chest with the point of her parasol. “Say something,” she commanded.

  “Eeerk,” said the parrot huffily, and flew off.

  “It did speak,” said Verity.

  “There now. Do not distress yourself. If you say it did, it did. What are your plans?”

  “I shall return to Market Basset and stay with one of the neighbors, though goodness knows what they will make of these creatures.”

  “Stay with me,” said Lady Wythe. “I mean it. I have a large mansion in Green Street.” She twisted her head around and looked up at the tall footman who was standing behind the bench. “And I suppose I will need to engage you as well, young man. If Mrs. Manners has not already given you your marching orders, she will when you return.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” said James, looking relieved, for his family was very poor and would be distressed at the thought of having another mouth to feed.

  “So,” said Lady Wythe briskly. “You shall come with me, Miss Bascombe. James, you return to Berkeley Square and collect Miss Bascombe’s belongings and bring them to number twenty-five Green Street.”

  “Very good, my lady.”

  “And I shall order you new livery today. I do not want a footman of mine wearing That Woman’s colors!”

  When James returned to Berkeley Square, he noticed with relief that Verity’s serviceable trunk was corded and standing in the hall along with the parrot’s cage.

  Pomfret appeared behind him. “I suppose you know I have orders to dismiss you.”

  “It’s all right, Mr. Pomfret. Miss Bascombe has been invited to stay with the Countess of Wythe and I am to be employed by her.”

  The butler looked relieved. “You’re a good fellow, James,” he said. “Madam is in a terrible rage. I sent Paul around to the mews for the handcart, thinking you might have to go to the stage, but you can use it to push this stuff round to Green Street. Oh, lor’, there’s someone at the door.”

  The butler opened the door. Lord James Castleton presented his card and asked if Mrs. Manners was at home.

  “I shall see, my lord,” said Pomfret doubtfully. He gave a little jerk of his head to indicate to the footman that he had better make his escape while Mrs. Manners was still abovestairs. Then he ushered Lord James into the Yellow Saloon and went in search of his mistress.

  To his surprise, Charlotte brightened at the news that Lord James had called and said she would be down directly.

  When Charlotte entered the saloon, Lord James caught his breath. He did not know she was still in a towering rage. He only noticed that her blue eyes blazed like sapphires and that her cheeks were flushed a becoming pink.

  “I came to present my compliments, Mrs. Manners,” he said, “and also in the hope that you might care to take a drive with me.”

  “I should be delighted, my lord,” said Charlotte dimpling up at him.

  “Perhaps,” he added politely, “Miss Bascombe might also—” He broke off as Charlotte’s eyes flashed angry fire.

  “Do not mention that creature’s name,” said Charlotte. “Never have I been more sadly deceived. I have sent her packing.”

  “What happened?”

  “I do
n’t want to talk about it,” said Charlotte, proceeding to do so. “I invited her to town because I felt sorry for the poor provincial thing. Little did I know that she was eaten up with mad ambition. She lured Denbigh back to town to try to snare him for herself. And do you know how that deceitful creature did it? She knew he had once proposed to me, so she wrote him letters supposedly from me, knowing that would lure him back. Then she proceeded to flirt with him boldly and outrageously.”

  “No!”

  “Yes,” said Charlotte, dabbing her eyes. “I had thought she would have reformed. The time at school when she ran away with the fencing master…Let me not go on.”

  “Please do not. I can see you are sorely distressed.”

  “And then there was the music master… So many, many men. Woe is me. To have housed a trollop.”

  Charlotte burst into tears.

  “Mrs. Manners, where is Miss Bascombe now?”

  “She has gone home on the stage, I am glad to say.” Charlotte wondered whether to accuse Verity of having stolen her pets but decided that would be going too far. She dried her eyes and summoned up a brave smile. “I think, my lord, that a little fresh air would do me a power of good.”

  “Of course, of course. Only too glad…”

  “I shall fetch my bonnet,” said Charlotte, once more dry-eyed.

  When she had left the room, Lord James thought over what she had said. Denbigh must hear of Miss Bascombe’s treachery as soon as possible.

  Chapter Eight

  “I trust you are not too interested in Miss Bascombe, Charles?” Lord James said later that day. He had run the duke to earth in Bright’s Coffee House.

  “No, I am not interested in her in the slightest.”

  “Good,” said Lord James, pulling out a chair and sitting down next to the duke. “Poor Mrs. Manners. She was sadly deceived.”

  “I am beginning to think that Mrs. Manners and Miss Bascombe are two of a kind,” said the duke.

  “How can you compare such beauty and sweetness with conniving and plotting and lack of morals?”

  “Do not be too harsh on Mrs. Manners,” said the duke, raising his eyebrows. “She is hanging out for a title, that is all.”

  “I was not talking about Mrs. Manners,” said Lord James passionately. “Do you know that Miss Bascombe wrote those letters to you without Mrs. Manners’s knowledge?”

  The duke looked at his friend in high irritation. “Mrs. Manners knew all about those letters. When I praised them and thanked her for them, she did not protest but accepted all my compliments.”

  Lord James looked momentarily nonplussed. “Well, well,” he went on, “I may have made a mistake, but Mrs. Manners did tell me that Miss Bascombe hoped to entrap you.”

  “Then she has a very odd way of showing it,” said the duke crossly, “because I proposed marriage to Miss Bascombe and she turned me down. She accepted a kiss from me with great warmth and I was led to believe she would favor my suit, but she told me boldly that she was quite used to being kissed.”

  “Then that does tally with what Mrs. Manners said,” cried Lord James. “For when they were at school, Miss Bascombe had an affair with the dancing master and then the fencing master.”

  “Indeed! Mrs. Manners was probably only being malicious. Bold as Miss Bascombe appeared to me, she still seems too levelheaded and gently bred a lady to have behaved so.”

  “When we were driving this afternoon, Mrs. Manners told me that Miss Bascombe likes to lead men on and then spurn them.”

  “If she had an affair with a schoolmaster, then that is not exactly spurning anyone.”

  “Did I say affair? I mean there was an involvement of some sort. I forget the exact words.”

  “And where is the wicked Miss Bascombe now?”

  “She has been sent packing. On the stage home, I should think.”

  The duke registered dully that the news of Miss Bascombe’s departure from London made him feel quite ill. Then he tried to rally his spirits. He did not quite believe any of Mrs. Manners’s gossip, and yet he felt sure he had had a lucky escape. He would soon forget her.

  * * *

  “Verity!”

  Charlotte burst into the bedchamber that had recently been occupied by Verity and stopped short. “Oh, I had forgot,” she said. “Of course she has left.”

  She trailed off to her own bedchamber and sat sulkily on the edge of the bed. It was just like Verity to flounce off like that. Charlotte had attended a rout that evening. The Duke of Denbigh and Lord James had arrived late. The duke had treated her to a mere civil nod, but Lord James had been charming and attentive. Lord James was only the younger son of a duke, but was quite wealthy in his own right, having inherited a fortune and estates from an aunt. Where the duke was cold, Lord James was smiling and warm. Charlotte wanted to tell Verity this, but Verity had gone. The large house seemed empty without her.

  Charlotte did not believe the duke had proposed to Verity. He had probably called to see her, Charlotte, and had said something that Verity had misinterpreted. And all that nonsense about the parrot…

  Verity is jealous of me, thought Charlotte moodily, and that is why she tells lies. Charlotte told so many herself that she could not understand anyone who did not. She had quickly become used to talking to Verity, bragging to Verity, being accompanied by Verity. Without Verity, her own sex had steered clear of her at the rout. Not only that but various gentlemen had asked her hopefully where Verity was.

  Of course, it was just like sneaky Verity to go and make herself embarrassingly popular.

  But Charlotte missed her and thought it was also just like Verity to fly off in a huff over nothing at all.

  * * *

  “And what are your plans for this evening?” asked Lady Wythe the next day as she studied Verity’s wan face.

  “Plans? I have no plans. I shall probably do some sewing. There is a gown that needs altering.”

  “There is no point in staying on in London and moping in Green Street and ruining your eyes sewing,” said the countess sharply. “The Dowager Duchess of Weams is giving a musicale tonight. I called on her earlier. Her companion, Miss Harris, is ill and so she said I could bring you to make up the numbers.”

  “I would really rather not go,” said Verity miserably.

  “Lord Byron is to be there.”

  Despite her misery, Verity felt her interest quickening. As the author of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Lord Byron was now famous. “And Lady Caroline Lamb is to be there as well,” added the countess. “She is quite besotted with Byron and cares not who knows it, especially her poor husband, although she and William Lamb have been politely separated this age. Have you heard the latest scandal? No! It appears that at Devonshire House, Caroline Lamb appeared at the dinner table under the silver cover of quite the most enormous dish anyone has ever seen, the contents when the lid was lifted proving to be herself quite naked—not even an orange in her mouth, my dear. It fell flat because the gentlemen were dreadfully hungry and would rather have had roast beef than naked Caroline.”

  “I assume Lord Byron was not there in that case,” said Verity, half shocked and half amused. “He seems from his poetry to be a dark voluptuary.”

  “If you come this evening, you may judge for yourself.” Lady Wythe wondered whether to tell Verity that not only Lord Byron would be there, but the Duke of Denbigh and Mrs. Manners as well. She decided against it. Besides, Verity might not go and the countess badly wanted to see Denbigh and Verity together to see if there was any hope of repairing the romance.

  Verity wore the burgundy-colored gown. Lady Wythe insisted on lending her a garnet necklace set in old gold, a fine Norwich shawl, and a pretty painted fan with ivory sticks. Her own maid dressed Verity’s soft brown hair in a becoming style of artistically disarrayed curls.

  As they approached the Dowager Duchess of Weams’s town house in Grosvenor Square, Verity began to feel a thrill of anticipation. She was in London, escorted by a countess, and she was
going to meet Lord Byron. She thought of the sewing circle back at Market Basset and was determined to write down everything about the famous poet before she went to bed that evening.

  The great house was crowded with people moving back and forth through the chain of saloons on the first floor, drinking and talking as they waited for the musicale to begin.

  Verity was pleased to see many people present she knew and liked. She was chatting to a group of young people when Lady Wythe pulled her aside. “Now you shall meet Lord Byron,” she said.

  Verity followed her through the rooms to a shadowy corner. A knot of people parted at the old countess’s approach. Sitting on a sofa was a young man who had been holding court.

  “Miss Bascombe, may I present George, Lord Byron. Byron, Miss Verity Bascombe.”

  Verity curtsied low. “And how are you, Byron?” demanded the countess. “Woke up to find yourself famous, I hear.”

  Lord Byron remained silent, his eyes ranging beyond the countess as if looking for someone. Verity was disappointed in him. He looked like a nobleman playing the part of a successful poet. He was about the same age as she was herself, with a strangely pale face under a mop of chestnut curls. His mouth was scornful, and his whole attitude one of weary disdain.

  “My lord,” said Verity sharply, “you have not answered Lady Wythe’s question.”

  He looked at her in haughty surprise. Then he turned his gaze on Lady Wythe. “I believe you asked me how I was. I am well.”

  There was the sound of a commotion behind Verity. She half turned as a thin, energetic figure burst past her, sat down on the sofa next to Lord Byron, took his hand, and looked at him, wide, hectic eyes eating him up. This, then, thought Verity, must be Lady Caroline Lamb. Her hair was very short and curled all over her head. Her eyes were enormous in her thin face. She was slight, angular, almost skinny, and exuded an air of excitable neuroticism. Lord Byron pressed her hand and sent a smoldering look down into her adoring face.

  “Come, Miss Bascombe,” said Lady Wythe. “I think the concert is about to begin.”