by Jane Ashford
“Oh, I can see that you’re plotting something, no need to put on airs for me. And since you asked me to come, I must have some part in it, so you may as well tell me what it is. I warn you that I shan’t have anything to do with another slap at Winstead. The man’s about to have an apoplexy as it is.”
“Is he?” replied Katharine, clearly gratified.
“Yes, he is. Now, let’s have it.”
Mary Daltry looked from one to the other of them with a slight frown.
“Well, it is hardly a plot. I was only thinking that Elinor enjoyed dancing with you last evening.”
“She didn’t show it, then,” answered her caller suspiciously. “Hardly spoke, and kept her eyes on her oafish husband.”
“Oh, well…” said Katharine vaguely. “She is a little uneasy these days, you know. But I thought, Tony, what a nice thing it would be if you would call on her, and just chat a little. Take her mind off herself.”
“Yes?” He surveyed her. “Well, I could do that, I suppose.”
“Of course. And I thought you could take her for a drive in the park one day. Elinor should get outdoors more. She is accustomed to the country.”
“That’s what you thought, is it?” Tony was frowning. “Well, I don’t mind, but what’s behind it? And you needn’t say nothing, because I shan’t believe you.”
“Oh, Katharine,” put in Mary Daltry. “You aren’t thinking of…?”
Looking from one doubtful face to the other, Katharine said, “Oh, very well, I shall tell you my idea. Tony has heard the gossip about Tom, so I am not revealing any secrets. Elinor is very unhappy over Tom’s infatuation with the Countess Standen, Tony.”
He nodded.
“And I promised to help her with the problem, but for the longest time I could not think of any way to do so. Then, last night, something Tom said struck me.” She hesitated, then hurried on. “And I thought that if we could make Tom jealous over Elinor, he would probably forget all about the countess. I don’t believe that he really cares for her. And then I wondered who—?”
“Who would be fool enough to play the ardent suitor,” interrupted Tony, “and of course, you thought at once of me.”
“Who could be trusted to help,” corrected Katharine. “And you were the only person I could hit upon.”
He looked partially mollified.
“You wouldn’t have to do more than squire Elinor about a bit,” she added persuasively. “No more than you would do for a dozen other acquaintances. But when Tom sees that Elinor is receiving attentions from another man, he will come running home.”
“And probably draw my cork,” said Tony wryly.
“Oh, no.”
“But, Katharine, is this wise?” sighed Mary. “I don’t know. It seems so…well…so underhand and not quite right.”
“I daresay it is a little devious,” she answered, “but I do not see how else we are to combat a creature like the countess.” She turned back to Tony. “Will you?”
Meeting her eyes for a moment, Tony grinned lopsidedly, then shrugged. “I suppose I must.”
“Oh, thank you.” She gave him her hand, which he raised briefly to his lips, and favored him with a brilliant smile.
And so it was that Elinor drove twice in the park with Tony Tillston and stood up with him for a waltz at Almack’s. Katharine watched them indulgently, part of her attention also on Tom Marchington, to see if he noticed this new development. At first, he did not appear to. And her scrutiny also forced Katharine to note that Lord Stonenden continued to dance attendance upon the countess as well. But this she refused to think of; the man’s affairs were certainly none of her concern.
On the following Thursday, Tony invited them all to a play, and Katharine, pleased, asked him and Elinor to dinner beforehand. It was a pleasant party, and they arrived at their box in good spirits, Elinor looking happier than Katharine had seen her in weeks. Their group attracted some attention as they sat down. The ton had not yet ceased talking of Katharine’s painting. And in the first interval, the box was soon full of visitors. “Everyone is agog to see the subject of the newspaper controversy,” whispered Tony as yet another gentleman came through the plush curtains at the back. Katharine grimaced and turned to greet the newcomer. To her surprise, it was Lord Stonenden.
Politely, but inexorably, he dislodged the acquaintance sitting beside Katharine and took his place. Katharine, while admiring the address that allowed him to do so without offending, was also put out. What made Stonenden think he was so welcome that he might dismiss her friends? Thus, she spoke to him coolly. He did not seem to notice, however, but made several remarks about the play, at once so astute and so cutting—for the piece was a melodrama—that Katharine was soon smiling in spite of herself. When Stonenden saw her lips relax, he leaned back a little in his chair. “You know, Miss Daltry, I have just realized that I never asked you about your stay in India. I can’t think why not. It must have been fascinating.”
“Perhaps because you have no great interest in any but your own affairs,” replied Katharine sweetly.
Stonenden’s brows came together. “You wrong me. Am I not expressing interest now? Admitting my tardiness—and I suppose I am behind every other person you have met in London—won’t you tell me of the place?”
“You know, it is strange,” answered Katharine, struck again by a thing that had often puzzled her, “no one has asked. They all behave as if I had merely gone into the country for a month, albeit at an eccentric time of year, or to an odd place. But none of the ton seems to wonder at all about what I have seen or what may have happened to me abroad. I have often been perplexed by it.”
He had been watching her face, and now he said, “Well, at least I redeem myself in this, then—that I have asked. And I am truly interested.”
Katharine met his dark blue eyes doubtfully, as if she did not quite believe him.
“You lived at the army’s headquarters, I suppose?” he prompted.
“Yes, Father spent most of the year there. Occasionally he traveled to visit various regiments, and I went with him once.”
“It was a great change for you.”
“Yes. But I didn’t mind that. At first because of…that is, it was exciting to see a wholly new country. I had never traveled before.”
“Tell me about it.”
Katharine looked at him doubtfully again. “You aren’t bamming me?”
“Not at all.”
She continued to frown at him for a moment, then looked down, her eyes growing faraway. “The thing that amazed me at first was the colors. They were so different from those here in England. And then the people, of course. I had an Indian maid whom I used to talk with, and she told me a great deal about her family. It was a revelation. I had never imagined anyone like her.” She met his eyes without seeming to notice it. “Do you know, she had eleven brothers and sisters. And they all lived together in what we should call a hovel. Her father was a water carrier, and they were terribly poor. It was a cause for rejoicing when she found work with us.” She shook her head. “And yet they were considered far superior to any of their neighbors, who lived in the same houses and had the same possessions, because their ‘caste’ was higher.”
“Just as a so-called ‘genteel’ family may live in poverty here without giving up any of their pretensions, I suppose.”
Katharine stared at him. “Yes! Yes, there is some similarity.” She thought about it, then frowned. “Though it is not precisely the same.”
“Naturally not. But did you have no English friends in India, Miss Daltry?”
She shrugged. “My father sometimes invited officers to dinner, of course. But there were very few Englishwomen for me to visit. They do not care to travel so far, you know.”
“You must have been lonely.”
“At first, I was. But later, I found things to do. I began to paint, and that was wonderful.”
“It consoled you for your loss.”
“My loss?” Katharine
looked blank.
“Of your fiancé.”
“Oh, yes. Poor Robert.” She sounded quite matter-of-fact, and Stonenden frowned at her uncertainly. Katharine fell silent. She had been talking very frankly to Stonenden, she now realized, and this was odd. She did not wish to share confidences with him. “At any rate, I was quite content,” she finished.
Seeing that her mood had changed, her companion nodded. “I think you should be thankful for the chance that took you there. You have had experiences that few women can have. And discovered something you care about doing; that is important.”
Katharine looked up at him, startled. “Yes, it is. Of course, here in London, my painting has only created a nine days’ wonder.”
“Much of that is envy, I daresay, and the rest arises out of boredom. Our contemporaries”—he gestured contemptuously at the audience around them—“haven’t enough to do, and so they search out new fads and sensations. They are hardly worth deploring.”
Though she had herself thought something similar, Katharine found his supercilious tone offensive. She looked down.
Mistaking her reaction, Stonenden added, “This furor about your painting will die down, you know. Does it pain you?”
“Pain? No, of course not.”
“Good. You must do just as you choose and not allow others to dictate your behavior.”
“As you do?”
“Of course.”
She eyed him. “But you must offend many people.”
“One can’t care for that. By and large, the opinions of others are not only irrelevant, they are dangerous. If one began to worry about them, it would destroy one’s independence forever.”
“Opinions, perhaps. But what of others’ feelings?”
“Are they not one and the same?”
“Good heavens, no! You cannot really think so. How often do we not see someone express a certain opinion and then behave in precisely the opposite way.”
“That is mere hypocrisy.”
“Sometimes. Sometimes it is simply that what they feel is at odds with what they believe they should feel.”
Stonenden pondered this.
Katharine, realizing that their conversation was once again becoming serious, shook her head and tried to think of some light remark. But before she could do so, there was a disturbance at the entrance to the box. Two of their visitors who had been going out were pushed aside by a man coming in. The newcomer’s hat was knocked off in the process, and Katharine was astonished to see that it was Winstead, with whom she could not even be said to be acquainted.
“Here, you, pick up my hat,” snapped Winstead to one of the men he had jostled.
“Pick it up yourself,” was the reply.
“You knocked it off, you ruffian, and you shall pick it up.”
“I did no such thing. It was your fault, shoving in here.”
Winstead flushed ominously and clenched his fists. For a moment, Katharine was afraid he would strike the other man. But Stonenden rose, towering over both of them, and said, “Enough.”
The challenged gentleman, abashed, continued his exit from the box with a muttered apology to the ladies. Winstead at first swelled with wrath, but then, with an obvious effort, controlled himself. All of the occupants of the still-crowded box stared at him.
“Did you want something?” asked Tony from the corner, his tone discouraging.
“I did,” replied Winstead. His overloud, dramatic response caused several people in the audience to turn their heads. “I did indeed.”
“Well, what is it? I suppose you know you are intruding here.” Tony sounded at once annoyed, and a bit nervous.
“Intruding, am I? I’ll have you know that—”
“What do you want?” asked Lord Stonenden, who still stood over Winstead.
Winstead was daunted, but he answered, “I want justice.” The sound of his own voice seemed to give him courage, and he added, “Justice!” very loudly. More of the audience was turning to watch now, despite the imminence of the third act. Whispers were spreading through the crowd. Winstead, seeing this, seemed very pleased.
“What do you mean by that?” said Tony belligerently.
“Oh, I think that’s obvious. Yes, I think that’s quite obvious,” Winstead sneered, and though Tony continued to frown at him, he appeared unwilling to go on.
“Not to me,” said Stonenden.
Winstead flushed. “I have been called a liar!” he shouted. “I demand satisfaction!”
“What has that to do with any of us?” asked Stonenden coldly.
Winstead pointed at Katharine with a great flourish. “I challenge you to prove that you can paint anything like the pictures you used to hoax Sir Thomas Lawrence. I dare you to try!”
Katharine, astonished and extremely annoyed, stared at him.
“Get out,” said Stonenden.
Winstead looked uneasy, but he stood his ground. “She cannot do it,” he continued, still in a voice that could be heard yards away. “You all know she cannot, and you are protecting her. I may be slandered and called a liar in print, but she is not even to be spoken to. She is not to be called a bold-faced liar, even when she is one.”
Stonenden advanced purposefully on him, and Winstead backed away.
“You are afraid,” he squeaked. “You are afraid to put her to the test. You have all concocted this story between you, to discredit me and ridicule art, but I shan’t let you get away with it.”
The whispers in the audience had risen to a murmur, and the stage manager had been forced to delay the curtain until the disturbance should die down. Several theater employees were making their way toward the box. Katharine, scarlet with embarrassment, was also angry. So the idea that she painted was a ridicule of art, was it? Suddenly she heard herself speak in a clear, ringing voice. “I shall be quite happy to prove that I can paint. But I won’t have a crowd around me. Choose a trustworthy witness, Mr. Winstead.”
The intruder seemed utterly astonished at this, and Katharine realized that he really had not believed she painted the pictures. “Ah…I…ah…” he stammered.
“Not yourself,” added Katharine. “We must find a neutral party.”
There was a pause; almost the whole audience was now staring at the drama in the box, play forgotten. And in the sudden silence, Lord Stonenden abruptly said, “What about me?” Hundreds of pairs of eyes swiveled to stare at him. “I want a portrait of myself. Let Miss Daltry paint it.” He looked at Winstead. “I suppose you will take my word? I am thought to be a tolerably good judge.”
The little man quailed before his eye, moving back toward the doorway.
“Well?”
Winstead seemed to collapse upon himself. Murmuring brokenly that it was quite all right, he backed through the plush curtain and out of the box.
“I shall show you the portrait when it is done,” called Stonenden after him.
The noise in the theater rose to a roar. Those who had heard this final exchange were besieged by those who had not caught it, and the story of Winstead’s challenge and Katharine’s acceptance ran round the audience like lightning. “Oh, dear,” murmured Katharine, “perhaps I should not have written that article.”
“You wrote it?” exclaimed Stonenden, who still stood near her.
Startled, Katharine looked up at him; she had spoken without thinking. “Shh. Yes, but please do not tell anyone.”
“You! I thought it was Tillston.”
Katharine shrugged. The stage manager signaled the orchestra to begin and glared around the audience until people began to settle back in their seats.
“I suppose I’d better go,” added Stonenden. “I shall call about the portrait.”
“You meant it!”
“Of course. I never say what I do not mean.”
“But it will be…that is…”
“You do not mean to play faintheart now, I hope?”
“No, but—”
“Good.” And with that, he was gone.
But even her surprise was overborne by excitement. Katharine had never had the opportunity to paint a real portrait. Her Indian maid had sat for her, and she had once attempted a likeness of Mary, but she had never tried a male figure, and she had never done anything public. The chance was daunting and thrilling at once. Could she paint a creditable portrait, one that Stonenden would wish to hang in his house? This uncertainty outweighed all other concerns, and Katharine began to plan just how she would set to work. Her companions, after unsuccessfully addressing her several times, abandoned her to her thoughts, no doubt concluding that she was upset by the evening’s occurrences.
Ten
On the following morning, Elinor was at the Daltry house before breakfast, and she joined the ladies at the table when they came down. She seemed very agitated, quite unlike last night, but as long as the servants were in the dining room she kept to unimportant topics. Katharine, watching her closely, was impressed with the way the younger girl controlled herself. Elinor had clearly learned a great deal since her arrival in London.
When they had finished their meal, Elinor leaned forward and said, “Oh, Katharine, I must talk to you.”
“Of course, let us go up to the drawing room, where we can be private.”
Mary made as if to leave them, and Elinor added, “You come too, please, Mary. I did not mean that I didn’t want you.”
When the three women were seated upstairs, Elinor pulled a sheaf of papers from her reticule and exhibited it. “I found these in our library,” she said dolefully. “They were lying open on the writing table. I did not look in Tom’s pockets or anything low. He didn’t care whether I saw them, I suppose.”
