Jane Ashford

by Three Graces

  Euphie laughed. “With Pug and Nero? I was indeed. But I have not done that again. I refused.”

  “Did Mother wish you to?” replied the man, amused.

  “Oh, no, I don’t think so. She only pretended to.”

  The earl looked at her more closely. “You begin to understand my mother very well, don’t you, Miss Hartington?”

  Taken aback, Euphie looked up at him.

  “Oh, I am pleased by it, don’t misunderstand. In fact, I meant to congratulate you on the very favorable change I see in her recently.”

  “Me?”

  “Why, yes. Your coming here has had a marked effect. My mother has kept entirely to herself for years, even discouraging her children from visiting her. Now she seems to be making a change.”

  “But I have done nothing.”

  “I think you have. Seeing the play in your company recently showed me what it is, too.”

  Euphie stared at him. She did not think that she had had any effect at all on the countess. The older woman did just as she pleased.

  The earl smiled. “You lend a fresh perspective to everything, Miss Hartington. You renew one’s interest in life through your eagerness for it.”

  Euphie flushed. “You are roasting me, Lord Fanshawe.”

  “I assure you I am not. You are a very unusual girl.”

  “Unusual?” Euphie was uncertain whether this was a critical or approving comment.

  “What is unusual?” asked Lady Fanshawe from the doorway. Euphie started and whirled around, wondering how much of their conversation she had overheard.

  “Miss Hartington,” replied her son, unruffled. “The more I see of her, the more I am convinced that she is quite out of the common way.”

  “Well, of course she is. Haven’t I told you so?” The countess came into the room and sat down. “Dinner will be ready in a moment, so I shan’t offer you anything now. Euphie has been shaped by a series of very uncommon occurrences. First, there was her odd name. It always makes a child think when his name is unlike those of his friends; I am an advocate of odd names myself.”

  Lord Fanshawe smiled. “That is, no doubt, why you named your children Dora, Jane, and Giles.”

  She waved this aside unconcernedly. “Then, Euphie was reared by her aunt, a most eccentric woman, as far as I can tell. This also contributed to her originality.”

  Euphie, very embarrassed by this discussion of her character, kept her eyes on the floor and wondered how she could shift the conversation onto some other topic.

  “Tell me more about this aunt,” said the earl. “How, precisely, was she eccentric?”

  “Oh, on the face of it, in the usual ways. She kept a houseful of cats, you know, and scarcely ever went out. But that is not what I meant.”

  “Wasn’t it?” Her son appeared to be struggling with laughter. “I am almost afraid to ask what you did mean, then.”

  The countess eyed him severely. “I was referring to Euphie’s education. Her aunt gave her, and her sisters, the freedom to study whatever they wished and as much as they wished. In this way, Euphie gained her quite extraordinary knowledge of music. Her talent, of course, would have developed in any case, but her training was very unusual for a young woman. She was not forced to anything, but she was allowed to study one thing in depth.”

  “Yes, I see. But I admit that this method of education seems dangerous to me. It was effective in Miss Hartington’s case because she was inspired to study music. It would hardly do for all young people.”

  “We… we were made to learn all the usual things first,” blurted Euphie, not wishing to be thought wholly strange. “And Aunt Elvira always encouraged us to read.”

  “Of course she did,” agreed the countess. “One of Euphie’s sisters is a remarkable scholar,” she told her son.

  “Indeed? And the third?”

  “Aggie is the sweetest, most amiable person in the world,” replied the girl, meeting Lord Fanshawe’s blue eyes almost defiantly. He smiled, and something in his gaze made her catch her breath.

  At that moment, Jenkins came in to announce dinner, and they went in, to Euphie’s relief. The talk of originality had made her very uneasy. She did not wish to be an original. On the contrary, she had always objected to their aunt’s keeping them so close to home and not allowing them to do the things other girls did. She had hoped that her unconventional childhood was not perceptible in her behavior, but it appeared that it was, and this was dispiriting.

  When the first course had been served, the countess turned to her son and said, “So, Giles, tell us what you have been up to since we saw you last.”

  “Up to, Mother?”

  “Come, come, you heard what I said. Don’t pretend to be dull. You are always up to some deviltry.”

  He laughed. “Indeed I am not. I promise you I had a prosy week.”

  “I don’t believe you, but if you are going to be difficult, I will talk of something else. Let us hear the on-dits, then. I haven’t gossiped in an age.”

  Though he looked gratified by his mother’s wish to hear about society, the earl hesitated. “Miss Hartington…”

  “Oh, la, Giles, not the scandals. Just the news.”

  Thus reassured, he complied, and amused them throughout dinner with stories about various London personages and their doings. Euphie had heard of none of them, but Lord Fanshawe’s lively descriptions nevertheless amused her. And Lady Fanshawe was soon laughing heartily.

  “Old Geoffrey Danvers a great-grandfather,” she crowed. “How he must hate it. Does he still dye his hair?”

  “Jet black,” replied her son, “and wears the tightest corsets in the Carlton House set, which is saying something.”

  Lady Fanshawe wiped tears of laughter from her eyes. “I must see him. You shall take me to Prinny’s next reception, Giles.”

  “I should be delighted.” He threw Euphie a triumphant glance, and she smiled in reply.

  His mother rose, “Come, Euphie. Let us go to the drawing room. And you come along too, Giles. There is no reason for you to sit alone over your wine. A bad habit.” With a wry smile, the earl also rose, and they walked back upstairs together and sat in the drawing room. “Ah,” sighed the countess, leaning back in an armchair, “we shall sit a moment and digest our dinners, and then perhaps Euphie will play a little for us.”

  “Indeed, I hope so,” agreed her son.

  Euphie signified her willingness, and Lady Fanshawe nodded. “Giles,” she added then, “didn’t Julia Warrington’s boy tell me at the play that she is giving a rout party next week?”

  “I believe she is; it is one of the first events of the season.”

  “Hah. I think I shall go. The lad mentioned something about an invitation, and I brushed him off, but I shall write her and tell her I wish to come after all.”

  “That would be splendid, Mother. I am sure she will be happy to see you again.”

  The countess looked sidelong at Euphie. “Will you like to go, my dear? I daresay you would enjoy a London evening party.”

  “I? Oh, but…”

  “Well, of course. You cannot expect me to go alone.”

  “But Lord Fanshawe will escort you, certainly.”

  “That’s as may be. I shall want you.”

  “You mustn’t force Miss Hartington, Mother,” put in the earl.

  His mother looked at him sharply, but he refused to meet her eyes. “Naturally not,” drawled Lady Fanshawe, “but Euphie would love a party, wouldn’t you, dear?”

  “Well, I have never—”

  “Good. That’s settled, then. I shall write Julia tomorrow.”

  Jenkins came in with the coffee, and Pug at his heels. As the butler began to set out the cups, the small dog edged along the drawing-room wall toward the far corner, looking frequently over his shoulder and once starting at an unexpected sound. “What has happened to Pug?” the earl asked his mother. “He seems a changed animal.”

  Lady Fanshawe laughed. “Changed? I should say
so.”

  Amused, the earl watched him slink into the corner and lie down. Pug did not relax, however; he kept both eyes wide and staring and scanned the room continually. “What is he searching for?” said the man.

  The countess gave another crack of laughter. “Ask Euphie.”

  Lord Fanshawe turned inquiringly toward her, and Euphie shook her head. “Nero,” she answered. “He will jump out at Pug and tease him; I can’t make him stop, though I promise you I have tried my best.”

  The earl began to laugh. “Are they still at it, then?”

  “They don’t fight quite so much,” she replied, “but they don’t get on, either. I have tried everything I can think of, but Nero is, uh, lively, and Pug does not seem to understand that he is only funning.”

  The butler went out, and Lady Fanshawe poured the coffee. “Pug is only sulking,” she said, “and the sooner he stops, the happier he will be.”

  “I have never seen such a transformation,” said her son. “Look, there is the cat now.” Indeed, Nero could be seen near the doorway. He was crouched down on the carpet surveying the room.

  “Oh, dear, he must have gotten in when Jenkins went out. I’ll get him,” said Euphie, starting to rise.

  “No, leave him. I want to see what happens,” answered the earl.

  Euphie looked to Lady Fanshawe; she knew only too well what would happen, but her ladyship said nothing. With a sigh, Euphie sat back.

  Stealthily Nero made his way to a table in the center of the room. The cloth hung to the floor, and he disappeared under it. Pug was hardly five feet from the other side. They waited, and in a moment the inevitable occurred. Nero burst from beneath the cloth with a yowl, flying at Pug, claws outstretched. Pug, considerably startled, leaped up just in time to butt his head into these claws, and he began immediately to howl in outrage. The earl collapsed laughing, and Euphie jumped up to separate

  the combatants.

  She snatched Nero from the floor and held him up. Seeing his opponent removed, Pug, who had been retreating, began to yap and leap up on her skirts. Euphie bent again and scooped him up, holding him in one hand while the other imprisoned the squirming Nero. “I shall shut them in separate rooms,” she said and strode out.

  The earl continued to laugh for several moments, and his mother watched him appreciatively. When he was calmer, she said, “You are very merry these days, Giles. I don’t know when I’ve seen you laugh so much.”

  “You should have provided yourself with a kitten before, Mother, and you might have seen me laugh all you like. What a sight!”

  “And a charming young companion?” suggested the countess.

  “What?”

  “I said, Miss Hartington is very charming.”

  “Oh. Yes, she is.”

  “Do you like her?”

  “I? Well, yes.”

  His mother nodded. “I think I shall try to marry her off, Giles.”

  The earl sat up straighter. “What?”

  “Yes. She is a lovely little thing. It shouldn’t be difficult to find a suitable match.” She watched her son’s face closely as she said this.

  “But… but, she is your companion. If she marries…”

  “You cannot think I am so selfish as to consider that. I am selfish, but when I look at that lovely girl…” Lady Fanshawe smiled. “And how amusing it would be.”

  “But, Mother…”

  Euphie came back into the room. “I put Nero in my room and Pug in the library; they cannot get at one another now.”

  “Splendid, my dear,” replied the countess. “And now perhaps you will play for us a bit? Only a little. I am getting tired.”

  “Of course, Lady Fanshawe.”

  The countess held out her hand for her son’s arm, smiling sweetly up at him. Frowning, he gave it to her, and the three walked down the hall to the back parlor and the pianoforte.

  Eighteen

  Julia Warrington’s gathering was to take place only three days later, and there was something of a flurry in Lady Fanshawe’s household as a result. The countess bemoaned the fact that there was no time to get Euphie a new dress; the girl insisted that she would wear her pale green once again, scandalizing her employer thoroughly. The maids ran here and there with laundry and mending, and somehow, on the night in question, Lady Fanshawe and Euphie met in the drawing room after dinner completely outfitted for the party.

  Euphie was wearing her pale green gown, and it looked as lovely as before. The countess, very grand in lavender silk and silver lace, had to admit that the girl looked well. “We shall simply hope that no one of consequence noticed your dress at the play,” she said. “You can be sure that some odious cat did so, however. And I shall be astonished if it is not mentioned.”

  Euphie shrugged, further trying Lady Fanshawe’s sensibilities.

  The carriage had been ordered for nine, and they went down to it a few minutes after. After considering the matter, the countess had rejected her son’s escort, saying that he would more than likely be late and they could perfectly well go alone. Euphie had the impression that Lord Fanshawe was not at all displeased by this decision.

  At the Warrington house, they left their wraps with a footman and walked up the staircase. At its head stood two women, one obviously the daughter of the other. Both were tall, with dark hair and eyes and exquisite ivory skin. “Arabella!” exclaimed the older one. “How wonderful to see you. You cannot know how flattered I am that you have come out of seclusion to attend my party.”

  “Hardly seclusion, Julia,” responded the countess dryly. “Allow me to present a young friend, Miss Euphrosyne Hartington.”

  The three greeted each other politely.

  “And this is my daughter, you know, Arabella. Charlotte, this is one of my oldest friends. I am bringing Charlotte out this season.”

  To these rather confused remarks, Lady Fanshawe replied only, “How I hate that phrase, ‘one of my oldest friends.’ Surely you have some friends who are older, Julia?”

  “But, my dear, I did not mean—”

  “No, no, I know it. Come along, Euphie. We are blocking the entry.”

  They walked on, into the drawing room, where the countess was welcomed by several people at once. She went to sit on a sofa by the far wall, and Euphie followed. She was duly introduced to a number of guests, most of the countess’s generation, and she took up her station behind the sofa and settled to watch the proceedings with a lively curiosity.

  It was a spectacle worth observing. Several groups stood about the room talking and laughing, and Euphie studied them interestedly. There were the young girls just out, and their admirers; Charlotte Warrington came in to join this circle after a while. They were a mass of pale colors and nervous shiftings. A little farther along were the young matrons and a sprinkling of gentlemen of obvious sophistication and address. A knot of older men held the far corner. Euphie smiled at their patent boredom. Unless she was much mistaken, they were about to decamp in search of a card table and a bottle. Their wives were in the group surrounding Lady Fanshawe; this stretched along the side of the room, and from the glances that were often cast across the floor, it was clear that it included the mothers of all the debutantes present. Euphie stifled a giggle; she had never seen anything half so amusing.

  Lord Fanshawe came up to greet his mother. He nodded to Euphie and started to turn away, but she was so taken up with her observations that she didn’t notice. “It is better than a novel,” she told him, “watching the way they speak to one another and move about the room. That woman there”—she discreetly indicated one of the most dashing of the young married women—“is excessively bored. I have watched her try this group, then that, in hopes of finding someone amusing to talk to, but she has not succeeded.”

  The earl looked startled. “Have you indeed?”

  “Yes, and that poor young girl there is terribly shy and frightened. I almost went to speak to her a moment ago, but then that young man rescued her. Do you know who she is?”


  Lord Fanshawe looked around without marked interest. “The one talking to young Warrington?”

  “If he is the tall dark young man, yes.”

  He nodded. “One of the Deming girls, I think. I haven’t met her, but she has the look of the family. They are all hopelessly shy.”

  “She looks very nice.”

  Fanshawe shrugged. “If you will excuse me, I must say hello to our host.”

  “Of course.” Euphie watched him walk away, a bit puzzled. He seemed very different this evening from the man who had sat with them at the play and had so enjoyed her music. As he reached the center of the drawing room, the young matron who had been so bored accosted him.

  The woman did not look weary now; rather, her eyes sparkled as she put a hand on Lord Fanshawe’s arm. He stopped, smiled, and said something that made her laugh, and she slipped her hand through his arm and went with him toward the card room. Euphie frowned unconsciously and turned back to listen to the countess’s conversation.

  Some time passed in this manner. Refreshments were offered, and a small band of musicians began to play quietly in an alcove. Lady Fanshawe was obviously having a splendid time, and Euphie was content to stand behind her and observe the party. The earl did not approach them again, but moved among the other guests, chatting now with one, now another.

  About midway through the evening, Lady Fanshawe abruptly remembered Euphie. “Here,” she said, turning round to peer at her. “What are you doing there? You must mingle with the young people, get to know them.”

  “I am happy where I am, Lady Fanshawe.”

  “Happy? Nonsense!” The countess looked around, caught Charlotte Warrington’s eye, and beckoned imperiously. The daughter of the house obediently came over. “Charlotte, take Euphie and introduce her to the young people,” ordered the countess. “I don’t know any of ’em.”

  Charlotte bowed her head and motioned Euphie to follow her.

  “I really don’t…” faltered Euphie, but Lady Fanshawe pointed sternly, and she was forced to go along.

  Taking her to the younger group, Charlotte reeled off a list of names that Euphie immediately forgot. Appearing to think that her duty was done, she returned to her conversation with a tall thin freckled boy in amazing yellow pantaloons.