The Byram Succession

by Mira Stables

  Damon said that they must push on to London now that their help was no longer needed, whereupon the carter, obviously feeling that his master’s courtesy had been adequately upheld, relapsed into bucolic serenity, tugged politely at his forelock, and set the sturdy mare in motion.

  “I fancy it is not the first time that Master Ralph has returned to the ancestral halls in less lordly fashion than he set out,” said Damon.

  “No,” agreed his fellow Samaritan. “I am sorry for his horses. Do you really think the colt will recover? That gash looked shockingly deep to me.”

  “No reason why he shouldn’t,” said Damon hearteningly. “He’ll be scarred, of course”—and stopped abruptly at that fatal word.

  But his companion was no longer listening. She was holding out one hand upon which several drops of rain had just fallen. “Pray hold me excused, my lord,” she said hurriedly. “I must go back to the chaise at once.” And broke into a run, pulling up the hood of her loose travelling mantle as she did so.

  Damon followed at a more leisurely pace, grinning at the inconsistency of the fair sex. The girl had been cool and sensible over handling a frightened wounded animal, yet fled in dismay at the prospect of a wetting.

  The rain was now falling steadily. The lady who had been struggling with the portmanteaux was hurriedly replacing them in the chaise. The girl had sought shelter, but she peeped out at him as he handed up the last of the baggage.

  “Thank you so much,” she said. “Do, pray, step inside until this rain stops. The thing is, you see, Mama and Susan curled my hair very carefully so that Aunt Maria shouldn’t give way to complete despair at the first sight of me. And if I get it wet it will be quite straight again in no time.”

  He had not accepted the invitation to shelter but stood leaning on the door of the chaise studying the face so confidingly turned to his, a humorous quirk to his mouth as he said gently, “Then perhaps I should also draw your attention to the state of your gown. I fear-er-Aunt Maria might take exception to that, too.”

  The girl cast a startled glance at her soiled grey gown and gave a little exclamation of dismay. “Oh! Barbie! What shall I do?”

  Her companion examined the damage with grave concern. “You will have to change it, my love. Such a pity, for you have nothing else so smart. But not for the world would I have you present yourself in Berkeley Square in such a state. Perhaps the brown merino,” she went on doubtfully, “though skirts are worn longer now and trimmings are quite out—unless they are made of straw.” She stopped, recalling the presence of a stranger.

  The stranger was listening with unaffected interest. If these two innocents imagined that the grey gown was in any sense fashionable they were sadly mistaken. The mention of Berkeley Square intrigued him, scarcely adding substance to the girl’s claim of insignificance, but perhaps she was a poor relation whom ‘Aunt Maria’ planned to launch into society with a view to establishing her creditably. He began to feel a little sorry for the wench. She might be impertinent, quick-tempered and lacking in proper conduct, but she wasn’t a bad sort of girl and had shown up well in emergency.

  “And we are so late already,” she was saying. “If we stop at an inn for me to change my gown it will be quite dark before we reach Town. I daresay it will cost a good deal, too.”

  Damon glanced round the post-chaise. To his knowlegeable eye it was plainly a hired vehicle, reasonably clean and comfortable but quite devoid of such refinements as curtains. “If I may make a suggestion,” he said courteously, “my coach, with the curtains drawn, would make an adequate tiring room. The rain has stopped. If you care for the scheme, the coach is at your service and the change of costume could be effected while you wait.”

  Both ladies hesitated. It was a sensible suggestion and extremely kind of the gentleman. But the older lady felt that it savoured of impropriety and the younger one was oddly disinclined to accept a favour from one whom she had already designated in her own mind as ‘His Arrogance’. Their glances met—enquiry, doubt, pride, mingled. Never was such a transparent pair.

  He said smoothly, “Since the damage was done while Miss”—he tilted his head enquiringly.

  “Forester,” said the girl. “And this is my companion, Miss Hetherstone.” She had almost said governess. But that would be to assent to his placing of her in the schoolgirl category, and any way Barbie was Sue’s governess, had been this year past.

  “My name is Skirlaugh,” bowed his lordship. “If you had not come to my aid, Miss Forester, you would not have spoiled your dress. Nor would that unfortunate animal be in such good case. It would ease my conscience a good deal if you would accept this trivial service by way of amends.”

  The atmosphere definitely mellowed. Miss Hetherstone decided that he was most truly a gentleman. Miss Forester was softened by his tribute to her assistance. The exchange of vehicles was quickly effected while the rain obligingly held off. His lordship, keeping guard quite unnecessarily until the ladies emerged from the al fresco dressing room, decided that the brown merino, if not actually a disaster, put him strongly in mind of some ageing spinster engaged upon a mission of charity. Having expected nothing better he accepted it with fortitude, though his withers were, briefly, wrung for Aunt Maria.

  Politely he ascertained Miss Forester’s exact direction in Berkeley Square and asked if he might do himself the honour of calling upon Mrs. Newton to enquire how her niece did after the unexpected rigours of her journey.

  It was only when he had returned thankfully to the comfort and privacy of his own carriage that it occurred to him. These two chance-met females must have seen his disfiguring scars. Yet neither had displayed shock or disgust. Much could be set down to good breeding. But if the rest of his world treated him with a matching indifference, existence might be bearable after all. Certainly it was with a slight lifting of his spirits that he told Judd to “put ’em along a bit.”

  THREE

  Aunt Maria had begun to grow quite anxious by the time the travellers at last presented themselves in Berkeley Square. She greeted them warmly, voluble in her relief that she would not now have to put dinner back, since nothing annoyed Uncle Matthew more, and concealing her dismay at the brown merino and the limp, crushed curls. “I was sorry to have missed you when your uncle and I paid such a very hurried visit to your dear parents last month,” she said kindly. “Your mama said you were visiting friends in Westerham. But it was the only day that your uncle could spare to go with me, so occupied as he has been ever since the peace negotiations began. I am sure we are all heartily glad that the war is over at last, but your poor uncle is kept busier than ever. Something to do with the rights of those dreadful colonists to fish off Newfoundland—though what that has to do with the war or the peace I’m sure no one could imagine. But there! There’s no understanding politics anyway, and I don’t know why I am boring on about such dull matters when I expect you are all agog to hear about my plans for introducing you into society.”

  “Papa says that the fishing rights are just a sop to satisfy the Northern States,” offered Alethea obligingly. “The really important issues are the Western Territories and the Canadian frontier.”

  Aunt Maria looked horrified. “My dear child! What can you possibly know about such things? I do hope you aren’t blue! It would be quite fatal I assure you. Young ladies are not expected to understand affairs of state, far less to speak of them with such confidence. Should you chance to fall into conversation with a gentleman who is interested in serious matters—which is most unlikely, since the younger gentlemen care only for sport or, perhaps, for the set of a coat or the nice arrangement of a neckcloth—then a pretty diffidence, an air of reverence for the greater understanding of the superior sex, is all that will be required of you. In this respect I would advise you to study your cousin. I daresay I am over partial, being her mama, but it is only simple truth to acknowledge that she has any number of admirers, of the highest ‘ton’. And she hasn’t the least notion of politics. So you se
e!”

  At this point Miss Hetherstone hurriedly intervened, explaining that Mr. Forester had been deeply interested in the constitutional struggle so recently terminated, and had, in his own enthusiasm, carried his daughter perhaps a little out of her depth. “But I am sure, ma’am, that she would never put herself forward unbecomingly,” she added firmly.

  Aunt Maria smiled indulgently. “I see that I shall have to show you how to go on,” she said. “A debutante in her first season must be so careful; her behaviour modest, without gaucherie; her dress exquisite but simple—white for evenings, of course—no vivid colours or extravagance of style.”

  “Oh dear!” said her niece in accents of dismay. “Must it be white?”

  “For your come-out, most certainly. Pale colours are permissible on other occasions. But until you have been given vouchers for Almack’s you cannot be too discreet. And one can never take that privilege for granted. Indeed I was in agonies lest Tina should be refused them last year. That dreadful riding habit that she bought, quite unknown to me! Quite wickedly becoming, of course, but most improper. Kit said even the horse was shocked. It tried to bolt with her. Just funning, you know. That is Kit Grayson—they are childhood friends. So fortunate that he was riding in the Park and was able to prevent an accident, though it would have been more useful if he had been able to dissuade her from choosing so unreliable a mount just because it matched her hair. But if she had been seen! Oh yes! Most certainly it must be white.”

  Alethea, who had been trying to reconcile this somewhat elliptical account of her cousin’s conduct with Aunt Maria’s suggestion that she should model her own upon it, blinked at her in amazement, having quite lost track of the original argument. But Aunt Maria was already off again.

  “I mean to give a small ball to introduce you into society. Rather a sober affair, I am afraid. But since you have no acquaintance in Town I judged it best to invite family parties—the members of my own intimate circle with their sons and daughters. As soon as you are suitably dressed I shall begin to take you about with me in a quiet sort of way—morning visits, you know, and walking in the Park. Perhaps one or two concerts and theatres, so that you will get to know people gradually and will not feel yourself surrounded by strangers when the time comes for your formal début. But the first thing is to buy you one or two dresses, for the one you are wearing she could restrain herself no longer—“is quite deplorable.”

  Alethea looked guilty. She did not know quite how it had come about, but it so chanced that neither she nor Miss Hetherstone had mentioned the change of costume that had taken place on the way to Town. They had naturally spoken of the accident which was responsible for their tardy arrival, but somehow that final chapter of the story had not emerged. It was very easy, Alethea was already discovering, to keep silence on delicate subjects and permit Aunt Maria to do the talking. She seemed to have an inexhaustible flow of conversation that covered any awkward pauses. In any case, the grey travelling dress that had been so hastily bundled back into the portmanteau was hardly more likely to have earned her approval than the brown one. Both had been made by a village dressmaker with more regard to durability than to the dictates of fashion.

  “Mama decided it would be foolish to have dresses made at home,” she said meekly. “Better to wait till I reached Town where I should have the benefit of your advice. She said I was a very lucky girl because you had such exquisite taste,” she added, half hoping that the compliment might soften her aunt’s attitude about white as the only possible colour for a debutante’s ball gown.

  Aunt Maria accepted it as no more than her due. “I have always had an eye for line and colour,” she agreed complacently. “But in this case it is not so much a matter of choosing what best becomes you as of dressing in the accepted mode. Not but what your dresses will be pretty as well,” she encouraged. “Nothing, to be sure, could be quite as bad as that ” She nodded at the brown merino. “And I must say you are improved in looks since last I saw you. I don’t at all despair of being able to present you quite creditably.”

  “But not in white,” said Alethea mournfully. “It makes me look haggard and sickly.”

  Miss Hetherstone plucked up courage to add her timid protest to her charge’s. “Do not young girls sometimes wear pale pink or blue?” she ventured. “Alethea looks quite charmingly in pink.”

  Mrs. Newton frowned. That was probably true, she thought. Her niece had the creamy skin that so often went with brown eyes and hair, a skin that was clear and smooth but lacked colour. The warmer tints which would lend a glow would undoubtedly be the most becoming to her. It was true, too, that many young girls wore pale colours. Unfortunately Tina, unlike most red-heads, looked quite ravishingly lovely in delicate shades of pink and wore them frequently. So it was manifestly impossible to permit Alethea to do so. Tina would be quite sufficiently displeased by the improvement in the girl’s looks since their last meeting. Alethea, then, had been a thin, solemn-eyed sixteen-year-old. Even now, no one was going to acclaim her as an undoubted beauty, but she had grown into quite a taking little thing, with a pretty smile and a really delicious figure—even in that hideous merino. To dress her in pink would undoubtedly provoke one of Tina’s worst tantrums. The very thought of it caused her parent to shudder violently, a manifestation that her respectful audience not unnaturally attributed to shock at their ignorant presumption.

  Alethea sighed and abandoned the dream of a slender brown-haired girl in a shell-pink ball gown. “I didn’t mean to tease you, aunt,” she said penitently. “I will wear white if you think it best.”

  Such prompt docility was quite foreign to Aunt Maria’s experience. “Dear child!” she murmured. “Always so sensible and so biddable! Clement and Verona are greatly blessed in their children. I was very happy to see Susan so careful of your dear Mama. And what is more, she bids fair to be quite charmingly pretty in a year or two. Which is a fortunate circumstance, since she can scarcely look to inherit a fortune as you did. But there! Your parents most particularly asked me not to speak of your circumstances and here I am running on about them already! Though I daresay it doesn’t signify, since it is all in the family,” she concluded, smiling very kindly at Miss Hetherstone.

  “Susan will have quite a respectable portion,” said Alethea composedly. “When Papa explained that it was not within my power to share my inheritance with her, Mama and I put our heads together and agreed that since I was so amply provided for, it was only right that Mama’s money should all be settled on Sue instead of being divided between us as was her first intention.”

  If Aunt Maria was startled at the notion of parents openly discussing such arrangements with their children, she was at least confirmed in her good opinion of her niece’s principles. Her eyes actually misted with sentimental tears, and she said impulsively, “You know, my love, I have been thinking that a soft shade of cream might be the thing for your ball dress. Not so harsh as dead white, yet quite acceptable, even to the highest sticklers. I have just the very shade in mind—the colour of cream that has set in the pan and shows golden in the folds as it wrinkles under the skimmer.”

  This vivid word picture awoke enthusiasm in her listeners. When she went on to speak of a ruched overdress, its flounces caught up with knots of ribbon or tiny posies—perhaps cherry coloured—Alethea’s eyes shone, and the speaker was obviously carried away by her own creative artistry.

  “Cherry colour is rather daring, of course,” she pondered happily, “but permissible, I think, if used with discretion.” And then stopped short, her mouth a little open, on her face an expression of arrested dismay. Her audience waited anxiously. Presently she said slowly, “But I don’t know if it will serve. A good deal depends on what Tina wishes to wear. If she chooses the green gauze, then cherry will do very well. But if it is the pink sarsenet”—she broke off, pleating her handkerchief between her fingers in nervous embarrassment; then said on a placatory note, “She is in her second season, you see, and so she may wear colour
s. And since she will be helping us to receive the guests it will not do for your gowns to clash. We will decide on cream for the dress, but cherry colour”—

  The door of the saloon was roughly flung open. Miss Tina Newton whirled gaily into the room. Miss Hetherstone’s lips primmed in unconscious rebuke of the unceremonious arrival. Alethea glanced up eagerly, admiration writ plain in her expression. But Miss Newton did not appear to notice that her mama was not alone.

  “Mama, Mama!” she exclaimed impetuously. “The most wonderful thing! You will never guess what I have just heard. Oh! It is beyond anything great. You must send to Madame Denise at once. I simply must have the new lilac silk for next Thursday’s theatre party. And I shall wear your amethyst set with it. Now don’t be saying it is too old for me, for I mean only to wear the necklet and one of the bracelets, and they, I am sure, will be just the thing. Especially the necklet, since you said the gown was cut too low.”

  “My dear child,” said Mrs. Newton in tones of fond reproof. “What can you be thinking of? Do you not see that we have visitors? Here is your cousin arrived this hour past, and you not here to welcome her. And I do not think you have met Miss Hetherstone before.”

  The animation faded from Tina’s face but she acknowledged the introduction politely and apologised for her casual behaviour, turning to Alethea to add, “And since my cousin is come to join our family I am sure she would not wish me to stand on ceremony. So stuffy and uncomfortable! The thing is, I had just learned that an old friend is back in Town and in my excitement I forgot everything else. Would you not like me to show you to your room so that you may change your travelling dress?” Her eyes ran thoughtfully over the brown merino. “I daresay Hetty will have unpacked for you by now. Mama, you did say Hetty was to wait upon my cousin, did you not?”