“I must practice my bowin’, I fear. Here, Antonia, lend me your arm. I shan’t have one, of course, on Thursday. Still, it helps. There now, hold tight!”
And while Antonia “held tight” her aunt’s plump arm, Lady Pendleton executed a modified curtsey. Having reached the lower limits of her flexibility, she seemed to stick.
“Ooh-la, la! Pick me up, my dear, there’s a pet! Lord! I thought I should not get up!”
Fighting back her smiles, Antonia gazed into the very wide eyes of her ladyship. “Excuse me, Auntie—but, what are you doing?”
“Why, bowin’, pet! For the Prince, of course!”
“Oh, I see,” said Antonia, who did not exactly. “Are you to bow for the Prince soon?”
“On Thursday. I’ve been commanded to Carlton House. Been years since I last bowed to the ground. I hope I shall! But, perhaps there shall be a nice duke about. Clarence was always my favorite. They’ve grown so old and fat, though! We all have.”
“I expect there are a great many dukes and that about London, Auntie?” inquired Antonia, as she helped ease her ladyship down once more. Panting a little, Lady Pendleton managed to raise herself. “We ought to know who they all are, I suppose, in case we meet any of them.”
“Oh, la! Did you see that, my dear? I think I have regained the use of my legs! How excitin’! There now—once more, if you don’t mind, and then we shall all go and change for dinner. What, dukes? Yes, I suppose there are a deal of ’em. Not so many Royal ones as plain ones, of course. Let me see, how many are there?”
Lady Pendleton paused for the descent, and taking a deep breath, came up again, quite smoothly this time.
“Five Royal Dukes, and, oh, two dozen plain ones, at the least! Prinney is always makin’ new ones, you know. The King never created so many new peers as his son does. I suppose it’s his way of wieldin’ power. Poor thing, I suppose he shall be dead within the year!”
“Who, the Regent?” exclaimed Serena, who had been trying to follow all this, with, one might add, some difficulty.
“No, child! The King, of course. It is a miracle he has lasted so long as he has done. Perfectly odious!”
As they were going upstairs to change for dinner, Antonia murmured to her cousin,
“Dear, who do you suppose is more odious, the Prince or the King?”
“I shouldn’t venture to answer that, Tony! Though I expect she was going to say something about his ailment, don’t you?”
Antonia paused upon the landing before her door, considering. “That must be it. Then the key to understanding her remarks is to fill in what she has left out. I cannot imagine anything more difficult! She commences a thought, stops it in midstream, and commences upon another, though getting very little further than the qualifying phrase. Either that, or she is blessed with a most refreshing perspective upon life!”
“That too, I should think,” replied Serena with a smile. “What shall you wear, Tony?”
“Evening gown, but cut high. Do wear your pretty silk, dear!”
Serena seemed to hesitate, then seeing her cousin’s eager expression, gave in with a smile. “Oh, very well! I feel quite frivolous tonight!”
“Do you, dear? I’m so glad!” Antonia gave her cousin’s arm a little squeeze, and with a special look, which was meant to mean many things, ducked into her bedchamber.
Serena continued down the hall more slowly, looking pensive. She had not meant to show her emotions as clearly as she must have done at the mention of that name! She could tell from Antonia’s face that the younger girl had seen, and understood. And yet, no one could be more astounded than she was herself at finding how deeply that memory still wounded her. Frivolous! How many months, days, hours, nights, had gone by since she had last felt lighthearted? Perhaps that was why it seemed to cut her so especially deeply just now—for, in these last weeks with Antonia and her uncle, she had come closer to forgetting herself, and all that old wound, than she had done in a year’s time. Indeed, she had been determined to shake off the memory with the environment of home, which inevitably reminded her of the past. How unlucky that Lady Pendleton should have brought up his name!
But Serena was nothing if she was not self-controlled. The softness of her voice, her apologetic manner, her air of wanting to disappear into the woodwork, hid a strictness with herself, a determination to be dutiful, which always amazed her friends. Indeed, there were so few who had been privy to those events, fifteen months before, that hardly anyone could have credited her with the fortitude with which she bore herself then, and afterward. Her father’s illness had occupied her, blessedly, at the first, and his death so shortly afterward had taken up all her grief and attention. The running of Willow Hill, that great place, had kept her days busy, and as for her nights—! Well, there was no one much to see her then. Of all her family and acquaintances, only Antonia and Antonia’s father were very intimate, and they at such a distance from her own home that she had not been forced to tell them very much. To keep that grief inside her, to avoid burdening anyone else, was her chief concern. That she should now keep up her front, lest she risk troubling the bright waters of her cousin’s young life, or cast even a shadow upon her pleasure, was Serena’s dearest wish.
She went, therefore, straight to her wardrobe upon entering her own bedchamber, and drew out the pale gray silk which Antonia had urged upon her as a respite from heavy mourning. It was an elegant gown, cut simple but beautifully away from the high waist, and caught up with ribbons in billows about the skirt. The sleeves were small puffs about her shoulders, and the décolletage, though not so low as was the fashion on the Continent, revealed enough of bosom and collarbone, to show that her neck was very long and graceful, and her figure, though slender, elegant. Serena was accustomed to dressing herself, and now, without even a glance in the mirror, she cast off the drab brown thing which Mr. Howard had so despised, pulled off her cap, and having washed her face and arms, drew on the lovely slik. She had just sat down before the glass to dress her hair, which she always wore pulled back severely from her face, when there came a knock at the door.
Pulling out the hairpins from her coiffure, she called out, “Come in!” Celeste, the buxom French maid who served as Lady Pendleton’s dresser, slipped through the door. She stood, struck, as Serena turned about on the stool.
“My lady sent to see if you desired anything, mam’selle.”
“Tell her no, thank you, Celeste. I am very used to dressing myself.”
The girl hesitated in the doorway. “Pardonnez-moi, mademoiselle, but—you have the most beautiful hair I have ever seen.”
“Rather too red, Celeste. But thank you all the same!”
Still the girl hesitated. “If you do not think me impertinent, mam’selle, perhaps you will permit me to dress your coiffure? This evening perhaps, you will wish to be simple. But perhaps—one evening when you dine away?”
Serena smiled at the fresh young face, with its lovely pink cheeks, bright eyes, and that combination of natural freshness and acquired style which the French, even in the countryside, all seemed to possess.
“Perhaps sometime, then. That is very kind of you. But you had better hurry back to Lady Pendleton.”
The maid, curtseying, withdrew, and Serena turned back to her work. In the instant before her features tightened into their old stern look, a young woman looked back at her—soft, glowing, with rich auburn hair falling in great waves about her bare shoulders, and it seemed to Serena that she was in a dream. That face had been buried some time ago. It was too painful to look at it now. And so, turning quite away, she went about the familiar business of arranging her bun in the old manner, and a film seemed to descend over her eyes.
Chapter VI
True to her word, Lady Pendleton put her carriage into the hands of the Misses Powell on the following morning. By eleven they had driven off, with instructions to call on Madame Violet, and by half past the hour were seated in that lady’s waiting room in Park Place. The drive had
afforded them a better view of cosmopolitan London than they had gleaned the afternoon before, for the fog had lifted and in its place was a thin, cold sunlight illuminating the monuments and houses and streams of pedestrians along every avenue.
The traffic was dense, and made up of so incongruous an assortment of vehicles, horses, dogs, men and women on foot and horse-drawn carts, that they had been for the first part of their drive too absorbed to speak. Antonia was fascinated by the size of everything, the regularity of the great mansions, the grandeur of the public buildings, and, most of all, the variety of human life to be glimpsed everywhere. From the highest to the lowest, London seemed to be out in full force that morning. Perhaps it was the faint smell of moisture in the air, an untimely breath of spring, like a half-muttered promise. The trees were brown and bare, but there seemed to be a faint green tint about the ends of every twig, almost a change of light at the tips of the branches, and the turf was still a thick green. Whatever the case, the countenance of London was smiling, and it all struck Antonia as twice as pleasant as it had seemed yesterday. Ladies and gentlemen of fashion promenaded, or were driven about, pausing before the profusion of shops to admire some bolt of silk, some dainty embroidered shawl, or a lacquered screen from China. Soon they drifted on, or turned into a doorway, nodding to some passing acquaintance, the gentlemen doffing their hats.
“They are not so fashionable as the French,” observed Antonia, at the junction of Piccadilly and St. James Street, “nor so beautiful as the Italians, but I feel in a way that I have come home! I like them—they look a sensible, solid people. Rather like a nice hot pudding—comforting and edible.”
Serena nodded. “The wonder of it is, how they can seem as different as they do from us. We are all of the same stock.”
“I know. Must be the soil, or something. We still feel that we are sapplings, and they are all of them great full-grown trees.” After a moment, she added, “And yet I know which I would rather be: there is something too complacent about them. I like our spirit, and our defiance. I believe I know what our grandfather was after, Rena.”
“Yes; we have nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Still,” murmured Antonia, sighing and leaning back in her pillows, “it is very pleasant to be surrounded by so much history. I feel that everywhere I look there is some tale wanting to be told. Think what this city has seen in its time, dear!”
Ensconced in Madame Violet’s waiting room, surrounded by bolts of silks and satins, examining buttons and trimmings, the young American ladies began to enjoy in full the easy access of luxury. At home they had been accustomed to wait six months for a new gown from Boston or New York; here, they were assured, their fancies could be gratified in a fraction of the time.
“Of course, mademoiselle,” murmured the small, alert Madame Violet, her black eyes darting from one to the other, “you will comprehend that some things require more time than others. If, perchance, Madame was to demand such a gown as I have created pour Madame la Marquise, weeth so many différente trimmings and so forth—”
“Oh! We shan’t require anything like that!” Antonia hastened to assure her. Did she actually see a relieved expression flit across the woman’s face? “My cousin and I have both quite simple tastes.”
Madame Violet glanced furtively at the elder Miss Powell, taking in the drab green gown and mustard-colored pelisse she had insisted upon wearing.
“Mais oui! Simplicity, she is the very heart of fashion, do not you agree? Still, there is some mer-rit in ze color, texture, fabric—these are important, too. For instance, if you will permit me to point out thees ver-ry beautiful silk, she is direct from Paris, toute à fait à la main, de la style chinoise. Très belle, n’est-ce pas? Très, très fine.”
“Et, très, très chere?” inquired Antonia softly.
Madame Violet’s face lit up in a smile, and she shrugged broadly, “But, madame, what is price, when compared wees beauty?”
Serena was fingering the silk, which was indeed magnificent, worked in a pattern of indigo birds and flowers upon an aquamarine ground. Interspersed among the design were threads of gold, as fine as a strand of her own hair.
“What is the price, madame?”
Antonia looked up in amazement and exclaimed, “Oh, Rena! I hope you will have it! It exactly suits you!”
“Zat will depend upon ze style, ze cut, mademoiselle. Ziss of course. Shall we drape you? You are zinking of a gown, perhaps, with an overskirt? Eef I may suggest to you a most simple line, to suit your wonderful hauteur—if you will permit, I should like to attempt somesing. Ziss way, if you will be so good.”
The little woman, with the scent of a large order in her nostrils, snapped into life, calling for her assistants, for scissors, for pins, and draping back a brocaded curtain, ushered Serena before her into a fitting room. The young lady hesitated at the door, more amazed at herself than anything, and gave Antonia an uncertain look.
“And you, Tony? Won’t you come?”
“No, dear, run along. I shall just amuse myself out here for a little. I still want to look at some other things—call me when you are ready!”
Serena disappeared, and Antonia smiled after her, turned to examine a bolt of silver-threaded pale lilac crepe de chine. Serena could afford whatever she liked, of course. but not she. No doubt that little woman was a perfect thief. How delightfully Serena had consented, without any urging, to be draped! She had been afraid it would take all her persuasiveness to get her to so much as consider ordering a new gown.
Immersed in her examinations of the multitudes of wonderful muslins, laces, silks and gauzes, Antonia scarcely looked up for a quarter of an hour. Feeling a stiffness in her neck, however, at the end of that time, she straightened up from her scrutiny and moved toward the window. The street outside was as crowded as it had been when they arrived. A high black-lacquered phaeton, drawn by four wonderful black stallions, was at present being held up by what seemed to be an energetic dispute between the driver of a hansom cab and the liveried coachman of a town barouche. Watching their waving arms and angry faces, she was too immersed to notice the approach of two gentlemen, walking on the same side of the street as the little shop. One, a stout fellow of middling height, was talking to his companion, a gentleman of dignified aspect, very well-formed features, and a greater stature than of his friend. As they came before the shop’s window, the tall gentleman glanced incuriously toward the window in which Antonia stood. Seeming surprised, he stopped and stared at her. It was at this moment that Antonia’s attention wandered from the argument in the road, and lighted upon the male figure just outside the window. Their eyes meeting, the gentleman stiffened, made a curt bow, and moved on with his friend.
What an arrogant fellow, declared she to herself. And he looks familiar. I wonder where I can have seen him? Oh! It is the same man who stared so rudely upon the ship! Imagine going about, gawking at people, as if they were mere insects, and he about to trample them! I hope I shall not see him again. And his companion, ogling me as well, as if I were a rare beast!
A movement behind her made her turn about just then, to behold Madame Violet, poised with a measuring tape in one hand, and a pair of scissors in the other.
“Mademoiselle would like to see her friend?” she demanded. “I think you will be well pleased, mam’selle.”
Antonia moved before the little dressmaker into the fitting room, and instantly exclaimed, “Serena! Great heavens, I never—!”
The elder Miss Powell, standing rather stiffly so as not to dislodge any of the pins, smiled faintly.
“Is it all right, Tony?”
“All right! Rena! It is the most glorious thing I ever saw! Turn about, dear, if you can. Look at the back! Madame, you are a genius.”
Madame smiled modestly. “Mais non, mademoiselle! It is your friend who makes ze gown. So much hauteur, so slender! Very elegant, très chic! I think we have created something wonderful, n’est-ce-pas?”
Antonia nodded, quite speech
less. Never had it occurred to her that so vast a change could be wrought upon her cousin with only the change of a frock. But what a frock it was! Madame Violet had draped the Chinese silk over a bodice and underskirt of ivory satin. The shoulders were caught up with pearled clasps, and pearls adorned the satin beneath her bosom. A flounce on either side of the draped overskirt accentuated the brilliant fabric, without obscuring its design. The bodice was cut very low, and simply tucked. Much of this was left to the imagination, for Madame had used two entire bolts of silk, the remainders of which lay at Serena’s feet. But the draping had been so clever, and the pins placed so carefully, that the finished product could really be discerned.
Madame, her mouth full of pins, set to work again, talking as she did so.
“Eet weel require a necklace of ze first water! Madame has many jewels, nest-ce pas?”
“Madame,” who had not relaxed her posture, and wore an expression half way between acute pain and fright, shook her head. “I am afraid not, madame.”
Madame Violet looked taken aback, but rattled on. “Never mind! I shall myself create a neckpiece embroidered with jewels for you! Or better still, surely Madame la Marquise will lend you some of hers?”
Antonia detected a look of rapidly diminishing enthusiasm on her cousin’s face. In point of fact, Serena had not considered the matter of jewels—nor of slippers, gloves, a shawl, or any other of the accoutrements that Madame Violet now mentioned. She had seen the silk, been taken with it, and prepared to pay a hefty price for this one gown, which would please Antonia and flatter her own vanity. She knew she ought to have one fashionable frock at least, so that she would not shame her friends upon any evening diversion they undertook. Never having paid much heed to fashion, having always dressed herself modestly and without imagination, it had never occurred to her that to buy one new gown was to commit oneself to the purchase of so many other items. Jewels! Why, she had a few, of course—her mother’s, and some little trinkets given her by her father. But certainly nothing of the kind Madame referred to, nothing “striking,” lavish, or extravagant.
Contrary Cousins Page 6
