by Carola Dunn
“Claire would probably be quite content to be left alone in the country while you do your gadding about. It is not an uncommon arrangement."
“No, but I suppose I expect something more than that even of a marriage of convenience. I want a wife of whom I need not be ashamed before my friends, someone who can help me entertain, both in London and at Tatenhill. Perhaps when she is out from under her mother's thumb she will show more poise. Amaryllis always had such savoir-faire, even when I first knew her."
“Oh, if we are back to Amaryllis, I give up. Eat your eggs before they are stone cold. I must go and see my housekeeper."
“I shall drive over to the Suttons’ early and meet you there for dinner."
“Very well, my dear. Remember that they dine early.” Lady Caroline beamed her approval. She was about to leave when the door opened and Aunt Dorothy and Amelia came in.
“On the other hand,” muttered Bertram, “perhaps I shall drive over this morning."
In the event, he spent the morning riding about the estate with his brother-in-law. He had always thought he had little in common with Lord Carfax, but now that he was forced to learn about estate management he found him both knowledgeable and helpful. He and his tenants had put into practice many modern agricultural improvements which had not yet found their way to Tatenhill. Somewhat to his own surprise, Bertram was interested.
He was also interested in the relationship between his sister and her husband. About to be leg-shackled, whether to Claire Sutton or some as yet unknown maiden, he wanted to see how others managed to live in wedded bliss.
The Carfaxes’ marriage reminded him strongly of his parents': affectionate yet calm and undemonstrative. Caroline appeared to be happy, and Carfax never spoke of her with anything but praise for her common sense and good humour. It seemed to him an admirable relationship, and much what he hoped for himself. He was not one for high flights of fancy or romantic notions.
He pushed away the memory of the pain he had felt when Amaryllis told him she had sold her engagement ring to buy necessities.
Though he doubted the Suttons would care, or even notice, if he appeared at the dinner table in his riding breeches, Bertram changed before setting out. His bottle green coat and buff pantaloons were moulded to his muscular figure with the perfection of fit attained only by London's premier tailors. His boots and hat, from Hoby's and Lock's respectively, shone glossy in the pale February sun. Pinkerton steadfastly refused to divulge, even to his master, whether he used champagne or some more recondite ingredient in the boot blacking. Whatever it contained, it was the envy of many an aspiring dandy.
Abel had the curricle ready. He was about to let go the horses’ heads and jump up behind when Horace Harrison appeared, picking his way daintily across the stable yard. “I say, coz, heard you was off to the Suttons'. Believe I'll come with you, pay my respects to the ladies."
“We dine there tonight, there is no need to go now.” Bertram closed his eyes as he took in the full glory of Horace's costume.
He was wearing his jewelled shoes, and beneath his open greatcoat his waistcoat was likewise decorated with brilliants. As he had pointed out, they sparkled better in the sun than in candlelight. He looked like a jeweller's display case, except that Rundell and Bridge's, for one, would never be guilty of such a vulgar display, even had they been diamonds and not Strass glass.
Abel loosened his grasp on the harness to gape at this apparition. The chestnuts shied.
In one swift motion Bertram brought them back under control. “Move to where they can't see you!” he shouted to his cousin.
Horace complied, hurrying past the restive beasts and scrambling up into the curricle.
Bertram sighed. “I shan't need you after all, Abel,” he called, and they rattled out of the yard.
“Devilish high-strung cattle,” observed Horace.
“They are unused to such magnificence at midday."
“Good idea, matching weskit and shoes, what?” The man was impervious to sarcasm. “Wager Miss Sutton will like it. Prodigious complimentary she was when I showed her the shoes the other day."
Bertram's recollection of Claire's startled amusement was quite otherwise. He looked forward to seeing her face when she saw the waistcoat, and he would have wagered a good deal that forthright little Lizzie would be unable to control her giggles. His lips twitched, but he could only be glad that his cousin was such a clunch. At least there was not the slightest chance that Claire would favour his suit.
“You still mean to make up to Miss Sutton then?” he asked casually.
“Damme if I don't, though t'other one's more to my taste.
I like ‘em lively. Still, it's marriage we're talking about, not a roll in the hay, and the blunt'll make up for a deal of boredom.
“Lord but you're vulgar!” Bertram exclaimed, unable to keep silent while his possible future wife was traduced. “Miss Sutton is a lady, not a ladybird."
“That's what I just said,” pointed out Horace sulkily, and mercifully fell silent for the next couple of miles.
It was nearly three when the chestnuts trotted up the Suttons’ drive. Bertram stopped at the front entrance to leave his objectionable cousin, then drove round to the stables. Turning into the yard, he heard sounds of merriment.
In one corner, several stable boys with swinging shovels were jeering and whistling at something in their midst. From the height of the curricle seat Bertram saw that they surrounded a carrot-haired lad who stood holding a wheelbarrow. His face was screwed up in despair, his face blotched with tears, his clothes smeared with filth.
“The devil!” muttered his lordship, recognising Miss Sutton's servant.
He tossed the reins to an approaching groom, jumped down, and strode towards the derisive group. A flying clod caught him in the midriff. From it rose the distinctive aroma of horse dung.
The boys froze in appalled silence as he reached them. The only sound was their victim's sniffs.
Lord Pomeroy looked them up and down, one by one, then asked in an icy voice, “What is going on here?"
“He done ast for manure so we gi'en it ‘im, my lord,” one said sullenly.
“'Tes only Alfie,” explained another. “He's a nacheral. He don't know what's what."
“Sir James shall hear of this,” his lordship promised.
They shuffled nervously, then the first one said, “T'master don't care. ‘Tes only for Miss Claire's garden, nuthin’ important, honest, my lord."
“He will care when I explain to him that his guest was, shall we say, caught in the crossfire."
For the first time they noticed the daub of muck besmirching his lordship's greatcoat, waistcoat, shirt, and pantaloons.
Three of them melted away. The other two, visions of a whipping before them, hastened to apologise humbly.
“An’ we'll clean off Alfie under t’ pump,” the larger offered.
“No!” wailed Alfie as the other snickered.
“No, indeed. Alfie is coming up to the house with me to have a hot bath. When he returns, the wheelbarrow will be full of manure, and the five of you,” he looked threateningly at the stall where the other three huddled, “will be least in sight. Jump to it."
His horsewhip moved with astonishing speed. The two boys let out simultaneous howls and clapped their hands to their rear ends before setting to with their shovels. This time all the manure landed in the wheelbarrow.
Alfie blinked at his saviour, mouth agape.
“Come on, lad,” Lord Pomeroy said kindly. “We both need to do a bit of cleaning up."
It was nearly an hour later that Bertram at last reached the drawing room. He had considered sending his excuses by a servant and going home to change. However, the thought of what a servant would make of his story persuaded him to tell the young ladies his own version. Besides, Golightly had assured him that Lady Sutton was absent, and that his own clothes would be clean and pressed dry long before dinner time.
He was dressed in clothes borrowed from h
is host. Unfortunately Sir James, though almost as broad and preferring his garments loose, was considerably shorter. Bertram's wrists protruded from the cuffs, and his shirt showed a distressing tendency to escape from his trousers. No wonder he paused before entering the drawing room and attempted to compose his features into his usual expression of affable calm.
Lizzie was seated facing the door. She looked up from her embroidery and went off into a peal of laughter. Bertram tried not to scowl at her.
“Lud, coz, you look like a scarecrow!” said Horace, shocked.
Lizzie rounded on him. “That's better than looking like a mannequin from a sequin manufactory!” she told him severely.
Bertram revised his opinion of her as Horace turned red and gobbled like a turkey cock.
Claire jumped up, dropping her book, and came towards him with both hands held out. “Whatever happened, my lord?” she asked with evident distress. “We have been waiting for you this age. Golightly said only that you were delayed."
He took her hands, led her to a sofa, and seated himself beside her. “I have been slaying dragons again, ma'am,” he said gaily, intent on reassuring her. “This time, in the form of five scrubby, grubby boys, and in aid not of a fair damsel but of your servant, Alfie. In the process, my clothes became ... er, offensive, shall we say."
“Oh dear, I sent him to fetch manure from the stables.” She bit her lip, and he saw that her grey eyes were dancing. “Those horrid boys, I am so sorry, but how very kind of you go to poor Alfie's assistance."
“I hope you whipped them!” said Lizzie, amusement replaced by indignation. “They pick on poor Alfie because he is a little slow. And we have not yet thanked you for that business with the gloves,” she added inconsequentially, “Which was equally kind."
“Not equally,” he said, grinning at her, good humour restored by their obviously sincere gratitude. “The purchase of the gloves was my pleasure. I cannot say the same of the present incident."
“Gad no!” said Horace in horror. “Can't say I've ever come into contact with horse droppings, but I daresay it'll stain."
Bertram shrugged. “Golightly promised me the marks could be removed. I took the liberty, Miss Sutton, of requesting a hot bath for Alfie."
“Then I had best go down and make sure he bathes,” Lizzie said, folding her needlework, setting it aside, and rising purposefully. Then she noticed the gentlemen's aghast looks.
Again her laughter pealed. “Never fear, I do not mean to watch him at it!” she gurgled. “Only I must tell him to get into the tub or he will think it some new harassment.” She hurried from room.
“What a minx your sister is,” Bertram said to Claire.
She smiled, but he thought there was something of sadness in her look. “She will soon learn to curb her tongue in London,” she said, “when she comes to realise that it is not only Mama who thinks her shockingly outspoken. I shall miss her frankness, I confess."
“I shall not!” Horace was still incensed at Lizzie's description of him.
“Doubtless she will not change her manner with her intimate friends,” said Bertram, wondering whether he himself was to count among those continuing to be treated to her devastating candour. “By the way, Miss Sutton, have you learned yet where you will be staying in Town? I hope you will be kind enough to give me your direction."
She cast a dubious glance at Horace, and Bertram wished he had thought not to ask in his cousin's presence. Still, it could not be kept secret from him if he chose to find out.
“My lawyer has found us a house in Portman Square. It is a little out of the centre of things, I know, but otherwise it sounds as if it is just what we need. We left it very late, and London will be particularly busy this spring, I collect, because of the King's coronation."
“No knowing when that will be,” Horace put in. “Prinny ain't going to set the date till they think up a legal reason to keep Caroline from being crowned queen beside him."
Bertram disliked gossip, and he found the subject of the relationship between George IV and his erring wife distasteful in the extreme. Nor was he happy that the Misses Sutton were to reside on the fringes of Society. That, together with their appalling mother, might well damn them in the eyes of the Ton, and he could not marry a woman who was not acceptable to the best hostesses. He frowned.
“Does Lady Sutton go with you, ma'am?” he asked. “I believe there was some doubt."
“I am not yet certain, my lord, but I think not. She ... My father cannot spare her for so long.” She avoided his eye. “In fact she ... she does not know yet that I have taken a house. I had hoped to keep it from her until we are about to leave."
“She shall not hear of it from me, nor from my cousin.” He turned a stern gaze on Horace who looked puzzled but murmured assent.
He relaxed. It was unusual, to say the least, for an unmarried female under thirty to sponsor a girl in her first Season, but it could be passed off more easily than her ladyship's ill-breeding. He looked at Claire consideringly, wondering for the first time whether her single state was more due to her mother's vulgarity than her own oddities.
Lizzie hurried into the room. “Claire, Mama is returned from the vicar's. Shall we go for a walk?"
Her sister glanced at Horace's shoes and Bertram's borrowed garments and shook her head regretfully. “Our guests are not dressed for walking,” she pointed out.
Lizzie followed her glance to the glittering shoes and stayed there. She giggled. “No, I suppose Mr Harrison will not wish to risk soiling his finery. He may stay and entertain Mama, if he prefers. You will come, will you not, my lord?” She turned to Bertram.
“I, too, must pay my respects to Lady Sutton,” he said.
“Fustian! I believe you are afraid to expose yourself to view less than perfectly dressed. You use your fashionable clothes as armour to hide behind."
“Lizzie!"
“Oh Claire, I'm sorry.” She ran to hug her sister, then looked at Bertram and said stiffly, “I beg your pardon, my lord, I ought not to have spoken so."
Bertram accepted her apology with a cold nod, but the shaft had struck home. He was forced to recognise that to some extent his insistence on perfection of dress was a defence, a shield with a device which announced his identity so that no one need question more deeply.
“After I have greeted her ladyship, I shall of course be pleased to walk in the gardens with Miss Sutton,” he said, with an ignoble feeling of having triumphed over Lizzie.
Judging by her grin, she considered the triumph hers.
She was not deterred from joining the outing, so they left Horace torn between sulks at being deserted and gratification at Lady Sutton's flattery.
They returned to the house just in time to change for dinner. Bertram was conducted to a spare chamber where his own shirt, waistcoat, coat, and pantaloons were laid out ready for him. Edward Sutton's valet fussed over him, assuring him that he personally had made sure that not the least stain remained.
“A shocking business, my lord, to be sure,” he said. “I understand Sir James has had the boys thoroughly whipped for their mischief."
“I have not told Sir James what occurred. How did he learn of it?"
“Why, I suppose one of the grooms, my lord....Naturally everyone knows of your lordship's misfortune."
“Naturally,” said Bertram drily. He had forgotten to allow for the rest of the world's love of gossip.
It was a relief to be properly dressed again. He was dismayed to realise how great a relief. Was his image of himself really so dependent upon his clothes?
It was in no very good mood that he went down to the drawing room, just in time for the announcement of dinner. With the Suttons, the Carfaxes, and the Harrisons, there were twelve at table. Bertram found himself seated between Claire and his cousin Amelia, and had to admire his sister's and his aunt's superior tactics. Lizzie was on the opposite side, some way down between Horace and one of her brothers. He surprised himself with a wish that she w
as next to him.
After passing the first course trying to extract a word or two from Amelia, Bertram turned with relief to Claire as the second course was carried in. His opening remark was interrupted by Sir James, calling loudly across the table.
“I say, Pomeroy, frightfully sorry about that affair in the stables. Tossing manure around indeed! Assure you the boys have been whipped soundly."
A startled silence fell on the company. Lady Caroline and Lady Harrison stared at their host, shocked at his breach of good manners in mentioning such a subject in polite company. Then Caroline glanced enquiringly at Bertram, hoping for enlightenment. As he shook his head in warning that the entire incident was equally unmentionable, Lady Sutton broke the silence.
“Of course the idiot will be turned off. We cannot have our guests subjected to such insult. I always told you, Claire, that no good would come of your championing an imbecile. He must go at once."
All eyes turned to Claire, but it was Lizzie who rose to her feet, her face blazing with anger.
“So he shall, Mama. He leaves tomorrow, with Claire and me, for London. And I shall have my Season despite anything you can do or say!"
She realised suddenly that everyone was gaping at her. She flushed, and Bertram thought he saw her lips tremble, then she fled the room.
Lady Sutton, her colour alarmingly heightened, was glaring at her other daughter. Bertram turned to Claire. Her pale face was blank.
“You will wish to go to your sister,” he said quietly, pressing her hand. He stood up and pulled out her chair. Her grey eyes glowed with fervent gratitude, and, wordless, she went after Lizzie.
Lady Sutton showed signs of intending to follow, but Lord Carfax, sitting beside her, spoke to her and she was obliged to respond. Caroline made some negligent comment about the foibles of young girls and launched into a story of her own gaucherie at that age. The rest of the meal passed in uncomfortable avoidance of the slightest mention of the distressing incident.
The guests did not linger long once the gentlemen left their port. Lady Caroline insisted on travelling home with Bertram in his curricle, despite the cold.
