Pretty Polly

by M C Beaton

  Verity opened the letter and glanced at the first few sentences. “It is from Papa,” she said. “Why, he has returned! I can go home.”

  “Not until we make sure your reputation is in the clear,” said the countess severely. “Mind you, the disgrace of that romp, which half ruined a good library, will put memories of anything else out of society’s silly head. I hate romps. So undignified, but usually people confine themselves to throwing cushions at each other instead of wrecking a library. I shall send for Denbigh tomorrow and you may stay abovestairs until he is gone. The trouble is that you fancy yourself in love with him. Quite ridiculous. A good, solid arranged marriage with one of your own class is just what you need. I thought Denbigh would do for you, but his behavior was disgraceful because, apart from anything he heard or you said, he obviously considers you beneath him.”

  Verity lay awake for a long time after the countess had left. She could not believe her own wanton behavior. He had touched her here and here. She groaned, turned her face into the pillow, and prayed for sleep to come.

  When summoned the following morning, the Duke of Denbigh came promptly. The countess waited until he was seated before demanding an explanation of his behavior.

  “I usually do not listen to gossip, Lady Wythe,” said the duke heavily, “but when Miss Bascombe refused my suit, she said airily that she was in the way of being kissed by gentlemen. Then I had some of Mrs. Manners’s spite relayed to me by Lord James. I did not want to believe it. Then last night I met Mr. George Wilson. He told me he had proposed to Miss Bascombe and had been cruelly turned down.”

  “Nonsense. He seemed on the point of proposing, but when he called, he was the one who was rude. He told Verity that he was calling only to say good-bye, for he was going to join his mother, and that he hoped she did not expect a proposal from him for he would not stoop so low, or some such rubbish. Now, Charlotte Manners had already received some peculiar rebuffs from angry gentlemen. Verity swears her parrot is relaying malicious gossip to callers, but I find it hard to believe, for the bird never says a word.”

  “But what I do not understand is why, instead of taking the girl in disgust, you should set about trying to molest her—you, who could have any woman you wanted.”

  “My pride was damaged,” he said stiffly. “I simply wanted a little mild revenge and became carried away. Pray convey my sincerest apologies to Miss Bascombe. I have always considered myself above listening to idle gossip. I do not quite know what happened to me.”

  “Do not let it happen again,” said the countess, rising to show the interview was at an end. “Miss Bascombe is an innocent, unused to the cruel gossip or ways of society. She will shortly be returning to the country where she will be better off settling down with a worthy man of her own caste.”

  When the duke walked off down Green Street, his first thought was that he had escaped lightly. This was immediately followed by such a wave of physical longing for Verity Bascombe that he could have cheerfully strangled her. He wished now that he had asked Lady Wythe if she had any idea why Verity had refused his suit. He wanted to confide in someone, but men did not discuss such things. Lord James was so besotted with Charlotte he would probably tell the duke he was well out of it.

  The duke made up his mind to retreat to his estates in the country. Out of sight, out of mind, he told himself severely. But a niggling, treacherous voice at the back of his brain was telling him that it would do no harm to stay in London just to see her one more time. He would find her quite an ordinary female. He would find his feelings for her had been some sort of temporary madness.

  And so, like a man suffering from a strong addiction, he persuaded himself that he had only to put it to the test one more time to prove to himself that he was a free man.

  Chapter Nine

  Charlotte and Lord James walked slowly along the Serpentine. She had felt in her bones he was about to propose and was anxious to get him out of that house in Berkeley Square before he said a word.

  It was a still, gray day. All color seemed to have been bleached out of London. The tall trees stood motionless. Even the graceful deer in their pound over to the right looked as if they had been made out of iron. The water of the Serpentine was like glass; the only thing to disturb its mirrorlike surface were the gas bubbles rising from the bottom and the disgusting floating debris on the top.

  “How romantic it is!” Lord James sighed. Charlotte thought cynically of various newspaper reports complaining of the awful smell of the Serpentine because the main sewer from Bayswater debouched into it, but wisely held her tongue and raised a scented handkerchief to her nose instead.

  “I am glad you are your usual beautiful self,” Lord James went on. “That was a frightful scene last night.”

  “Yes,” agreed Charlotte, wishing he would propose and get it over with. “Our London ways have gone to Verity’s head. I believe it was she who started the romp by playfully throwing a vase of flowers at Denbigh.”

  Lord James reflected that Verity’s horrified face had made her look like a woman defending her honor but considered it politic not to disagree with his beloved. He was enchanted with Charlotte’s beauty. He often did not listen to what she said. It was enough just to look at her.

  “I think London is not a suitable place for anyone of breeding to live,” said Lord James. “So many counter-jumpers and mushrooms have invaded society.”

  “Where would you live?” asked Charlotte uneasily.

  “I have estates in the country and a most beautiful home that only lacks a mistress to make it perfect.”

  “The country is only for visiting when society has left town,” said Charlotte firmly.

  “Of course, you are right,” he cried. “Last night’s episode, all the same, must surely disgust anyone with any sensibility whatsoever.”

  “Mmm,” said Charlotte vaguely, wondering whether he meant to parade her up and down by this smelly stretch of water forever.

  “Mrs. Manners,” he said, stopping and turning to face her, “I do not know quite how to find the courage to… Alas! I dare not.”

  A chill little wind sprang up, ruffling the waters of the Serpentine. A rotten animal carcass rose to the surface.

  “Oh, do try to say whatever it is you want to say,” urged Charlotte.

  “My head aches, my heart burns, I feel as if I am in the grip of a fever,” he cried. “Oh, that tongue might dare speak the precious words. Oh, that—”

  “Yes,” Charlotte said in a flat voice.

  He looked down at her in surprise. “Yes what, fair one?”

  “Yes, I will marry you,” said Charlotte, “only the day has turned cold and I do not want to stay in Hyde Park forever.”

  He seized her hand and kissed it. Charlotte surveyed him while her dispassionate aristocratic eyes assessed him. Good legs and his own teeth; unmarked face. She could have fared worse.

  They walked back in the direction of Berkeley Square, Lord James in a daze of happiness, Charlotte with a sense of achievement and already planning her wedding gown.

  Pretty Polly flew overhead and let out a mocking squawk. Charlotte brightened. “Verity must be around somewhere.”

  “Do not worry,” said Lord James caressingly. “We shall cut her if we see her.”

  Charlotte bit her lip, a lot of her pleasure in the proposal gone. It would be fun if Verity could be her bridesmaid. They could drink champagne and laugh and discuss clothes. Verity had been the only female friend Charlotte had ever had. She missed her humor, her sharp remarks; she even missed that wretched menagerie.

  “We must not be too hard on poor Verity,” she said. “Denbigh has behaved disgracefully.”

  “Charles! But, my love, you said—”

  “Now, did I ever say a word against my dear Verity?”

  Lord James remembered vividly every single word that Charlotte had said about Verity, but when he looked at the whiteness of her bosom, revealed by the low-cut gown she wore, the roundness of her arms, and t
he beauty of her eyes, he felt it did not matter one bit.

  “Of course not,” he said happily, and tucking her arm in his, he led her from the park.

  Late that afternoon, Verity was sitting reading to Lady Wythe when the butler announced that Mrs. Manners had called to see Miss Bascombe.

  “We are not at home,” said the countess.

  “Wait,” said Verity nervously. “I would like to see her, dear Lady Wythe. Just to see what plots and plans she is making now.”

  Lady Wythe rose to her feet. “You want to see her because you want to be reassured that Denbigh has not proposed to her. I shall not stay here and be party to your nonsense. If you want to see her, then see her alone.”

  Charlotte came tripping in wearing one of the new Invisible hats, which was a circle of stretched gauze. She ran to Verity and tried to kiss her, but Verity backed away behind a chair. “State your business, Charlotte,” she said.

  “So hard!” cried Charlotte. “You are a most peculiar female, Verity. Hot one minute, cold the next. I have great news. I am to wed Lord James.”

  Verity slowly came round from behind the chair. “I thought you were after Denbigh.”

  “And so I was. But it is hopeless. He is a strange man, and after the way he treated you last night—shocking!—I quite put him from my mind.”

  “My felicitations, Charlotte. But why have you come? Can you possibly have forgotten the way you treated me?”

  “I do not know what you are talking about,” said Charlotte, opening her blue eyes to their widest. “Did I not invite you to London? Did I not take you everywhere? You rewarded me by shouting insults at me and walking out. But I am prepared to forgive you.”

  “Charlotte, you are quite mad.”

  Charlotte gave a ripple of laughter. “There! You have the right of it. So we can be friends and you can be my bridesmaid.”

  “Thank you, but I must refuse.”

  “Why?”

  Verity gritted her teeth. “Because,” she said firmly, “I do not like you, Charlotte.”

  “Oh, oh, oh!” shrieked Charlotte, and then burst into floods of tears.

  Verity looked at her helplessly. “Do pull yourself together, Charlotte.”

  Charlotte continued to sob. She slumped down in a chair, looking the very picture of beauty in distress. Her crying became louder and harsher, and sobs shook her body.

  Verity became alarmed and rang the bell. James, now a first footman, came in. “James, fetch the hartshorn,” said Verity. “Mrs. Manners is having a spasm.”

  “No, no.” Charlotte coughed. “Brandy, I beg of you.”

  James went hurrying off. Verity knelt on the floor beside Charlotte and gently took her hands. “Please do not cry, Charlotte. You must not be so sorely distressed.”

  Charlotte leaned her head heavily on Verity’s shoulder and continued to cry. The action crumpled her new hat and that worried Verity more than anything else. Charlotte must indeed be very upset to ruin a good hat. She patted her on the back and looked up with relief when James came in with a decanter of brandy and two glasses.

  Verity sent him away and detached herself from Charlotte. She poured a stiff measure into one of the glasses and held it to Charlotte’s lips. How someone could sob and cry and yet drain a stiff measure of spirits was amazing to Verity. She thought it must be an acquired social grace, like learning to always sit down on a chair without looking behind you or to eat asparagus without letting the butter run down your chin. “More,” whispered Charlotte weakly. “My nerves.”

  Verity gave her another glass, then poured one for herself with a shaking hand and drained it off.

  “I miss you, Verity,” mumbled Charlotte.

  Verity’s kind heart was touched. Charlotte was very spoiled and willful, but she was not going to marry Denbigh. That glorious thought finally sank into Verity’s mind. She felt she could forgive Charlotte anything.

  “We will let bygones be bygones,” said Verity. “Do not cry, Charlotte. If my father gives me permission, I will be the bridesmaid at your wedding.”

  It was like watching a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis, marveled Verity, as the crumpled, sobbing heap in the chair slowly straightened up, stopped crying abruptly, straightened her hat, poured another glass of brandy, winked at Verity over the rim, and knocked it back with a practiced twist of the wrist.

  “We shall have such fun!” cried Charlotte. “Now, you know the veil is quite outmoded. No one who is anyone gets married in church these days. But I think it might prove vastly fashionable to do unfashionable things. I shall have a veil of Brussels lace and be married in St. George’s, Hanover Square. Oh, and a very long train. Do you think you could manage a long train?”

  She prattled on. Verity drank another glass of brandy to sustain herself and wondered what on earth Lady Wythe was going to say when she learned that Verity had agreed to be Charlotte’s bridemaid.

  “And you reek of brandy,” Lady Wythe ended crossly after raging at Verity for half an hour. She had been unable to believe her ears when Verity had told her of the renewed friendship. “I tell you this, Verity Bascombe, society was amused because the stupid Mrs. Manners had such a clever and bright companion, but she is the clever one and you have as much brains as that parrot of yours. Thank goodness nothing came of that business with Denbigh. You! A duchess. Saints preserve us, you wouldn’t have the faintest idea how to go on. You are going to be taught a lesson. I am going to give a dinner party for the highest sticklers in London society, including Denbigh. Mark how we go on, mark the difference between us and you, Verity Bascombe, and wonder that you ever thought to marry a duke!”

  “What a nasty thing to say, you old termagant,” said Verity, rallying. “You encouraged me to fall in love with Denbigh. People are just people, no matter what their rank. There are good and bad, common and vulgar people, saints and sinners in every walk of life.”

  “Heavens! I have housed a radical.”

  “No, you have housed someone who will not put up with your insults. You have said because of my birth that I am not your equal. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

  “There! Do not fly out at me. I like a girl with spirit, and I admire yours. It is my love and concern for you that make me oversharp in my speech.”

  Verity looked amused. “Now, I am going to insult you, Lady Wythe. Has it ever dawned on you that you and Mrs. Manners have a great deal in common…?”

  Two weeks passed, and although Verity went everywhere with Lady Wythe, she did not see the Duke of Denbigh. At last, she began to feel an easing of the pain in her heart. Good sense took over. A man who treated her so wantonly was a man to be avoided at all costs. Her treacherous body, which previously had shown alarming signs of wishing the duke would inflict those disgusting intimacies on it again, settled down, like a burned-out fire settling in the hearth.

  And then a letter arrived from her father. He was in high alt to learn she was the houseguest of a countess and begged her to remain in London for as long as she liked. But the rest of his letter made Verity exclaim in dismay. Emily Butterworth had written to her father while he was in Scotland, tender and charming letters, Mr. Bascombe said. He had proposed to Emily on his return and she had accepted him. Verity put down the letter. She was to have a stepmother the same age as herself. Emily was pleasant and friendly, but Verity knew her old life had gone. Emily would be the mistress of the household and she the unwanted spinster intruding on her father’s happiness. She had a sharp longing for her mother. She did not blame her father for not remaining faithful to the memory of his dead wife, yet she had never imagined he really would marry again.

  Verity was fond of Lady Wythe, but nevertheless she did not quite trust her friendship. She, Verity, was a novelty that kept the old countess amused. Verity often felt that the countess might one day soon become as bored with her as she had initially been delighted with her company.

  * * *

  The Duke of Denbigh had allowed his common sense to pr
evail and had taken himself back to his stately home in the country. The memory of Verity was dimmed by distance. Shame at his own behavior made him want to forget her, and he prided himself on having done the sensible thing. And then he received a card from the Countess of Wythe inviting him to dinner. It was simply a gold-embossed card. There was no letter to explain why the old countess obviously expected him to uproot himself from the country and ride to London to attend a dinner party in three days’ time.

  He pulled forward a sheet of paper to send a courteous refusal. And then he felt Verity’s lips against his own. The sensation was so vivid that he half closed his eyes. Damn her!

  He pushed the sheet of paper away. He would not go. He would not even trouble to reply. He had tried to get her drunk. He had only meant to teach her a lesson, but his feelings had overcome him. He would have gladly seduced her if he had been allowed the chance.

  For the next day, he worked hard on his estates, hoping physical work would ease the torment in his brain. He could not help hoping that she might be disappointed when he did not arrive.

  “No word from Denbigh,” said the countess, entering the drawing room where Verity was reading.

  Verity looked up, startled. “Were you expecting word?”

  “Yes, I invited him to my dinner party. You remember, I told you about it.”

  “I remember your idea was to invite him plus the cream of society in order to illustrate to me what a lowly creature I am.”

  “Well, that was wrong of me and I apologize, but I am holding a dinner party just the same and I found out he had retreated to the country, but I thought he might have troubled to send some sort of reply.”

  The smoldering ashes of Verity’s dying passions suddenly felt as if someone had poured a can of whale oil on them. Once, at home, when the fire would not draw, her father had drained off one of the oil lamps into a jug and had thrown the contents into the fireplace. There had been a great whumph and then a tremendous sheet of flame. Her hands shook so hard that she hid them under her book.