by Joan Smith
“You don’t plan to marry Allingcote?”
“No, that is what has Ben in such a pelter, but he doesn’t frighten me. I know how to handle him.”
There seemed some element of truth in this proud boast. Allingcote was strangely reluctant to recognize Miss Muldoon for the bad-mannered hussy she was. His smiles for her were sweeter than they should be, considering her behavior. What but love could account for such blindness and for such anger toward Mr. Moore?
“I am very tired,” Clara said, as soon as she had the buttons undone.
“A pity I—we didn’t think to bring a little laudanum along, and you would have slept well.”
“A great pity,” Clara answered with a wary eye. It was a wonder she hadn’t been drugged, but with the accumulated fatigue of the past week, she doubted she would stay awake long. She did stay awake long enough to hear Nel get into bed. She waited for the long, even breaths that denoted sleep, and heard only the squeaking of the mattress as Nel tossed and turned. The sounds continued for the better part of an hour. In vexation, Clara pulled the covers over her head, but still the noises from behind the curtain continued.
It had been approaching one o’clock when they got to their rooms. At two, the girl still hadn’t settled down or allowed Clara to do so. At two-fifteen, Nel emitted a low moan. Clara pretended to ignore it, but it was soon followed by a louder one. If she were to get any sleep at all, she must see what was amiss and try to calm Miss Muldoon. No doubt she was hit with hunger pangs at two-fifteen in the morning.
Crawling out of her own bed, Clara shuffled into her slippers, pulled her housecoat about her, and went into the next room. “I feel sick,” Nel said. Her voice in the darkness sounded weak.
“You had too much wine, very likely.”
“I only had three glasses. I think I had some bad food. The seafood tasted strange.”
Lady Lucker and Clara had been concerned about the food contributions piling up at Branelea. It was very difficult to ensure they were all kept cool. It was entirely possible that one of the dishes had become tainted. It occurred to Clara that food poisoning might be rampant at Branelea, a ghastly crown for Prissie’s wedding. But her main concern was Nel, and she felt her face for any sign of fever. It was a little warm, no more. She was worried enough that she lit a lamp and examined the girl closely. There was a febrile glitter in her eyes. Upon touching her own forehead to Nel’s, the difference in temperature seemed significant.
“You must get a doctor,” Nel said weakly. She was doubled up now in real or imagined pain, clutching her stomach. “It is the seafood making me sick. I think it was poisoned.”
Clara stood undecided. She felt it was a trick, a bid for attention—or worse, a chance to nip off. On the other hand, if Nel was truly ill, she must do something. While she stood undecided, there was a tap at the door and Ben stepped in. He was fully clothed, as he had said he would be.
“Nel says she’s sick,” Clara told him.
Another low moan came from the bed. Nel crawled deeper under the blankets, covering her face with her arms. “Did you have a look at her?” he asked Clara calmly.
“Yes, she does feel a little warm.”
Walking to the bed, Allingcote pulled Nel’s arms from her face and placed a hand on her brow. “Stick out your tongue,” he said. Nel complied, looking at him with her bright eyes as she did so, to read his reaction.
Like most laymen, Ben knew what the doctors did, but not why they did it. Her pink tongue told him nothing. “Where does it hurt?” he asked.
“Right here,” she said, rubbing some indeterminate midpoint of her body, whose exact location was hidden by blankets.
“At least it’s not measles,” Clara said with relief. “I was afraid she had caught them from her abigail. It takes about two weeks for the symptoms to show.”
A flash of interest gleamed in Nel’s clear blue eyes. She remembered Tolkein’s symptoms very well. After a moment, she began coughing into her fist.
“Too late, Nel,” Allingcote said sardonically.
Clara frowned at him. “We thought it might be food poisoning from the seafood...”
“No, I think it is measles after all,” Nel said. Her voice was a little stronger than before. She coughed again, with a sly look at her audience.
“What about the pains in your stomach?” Clara asked.
Nel slunk back down on the pillow and rubbed her eyes. “It’s a little better. I believe it was the wine.”
“Give them a good hard rub, Nel.” Allingcote said.
“A pity you hadn’t thought of Miss Tolkein’s measles before you began your performance, and you could have had your cough going more convincingly and rubbed your eyes into the proper shade of red.”
“She is a little warm,” Clara reminded him.
“She’s a humbug.”
“I’m sick. Please call a doctor. Ben, go and get a doctor...”
The breathless voice was scarcely audible now.
“Maybe you should send for one,” Clara said uncertainly. “There is no point taking chances.”
“She’s bamming us,” Ben said with conviction. “After I have gone for the doctor, you are to be sent off for water or milk or some such thing, and she nips off on us. It is the same routine followed—”
Nel sat straight up. “You promised you wouldn’t tell!” she howled. When she realized what she had done, she sank back on the pillows. “Oh, the pain is becoming intolerable,” she moaned.
“You’ll have a pain to match on your backside if you don’t stop showing off and get to sleep!” Ben said angrily.
Clara looked uncertainly from one to the other. She would have appreciated some of this strictness from Ben earlier. To become a tyrant when Nel might actually be ill seemed wrongheaded. “Let us send for the doctor, just to be sure,” she suggested.
“She is not sick, but she deserves to be, getting you up in the middle of the night like this.”
“I wasn’t sleeping,” Clara said. She felt an urge to protect Nel, now that Ben was attacking her.
“How could you, with her thrashing around in here, loud enough to wake the dead? I could hear her in the next room.”
“I am so sick!” Nel shouted in a loud, firm voice. She sat straight up in her bed now, eyes flashing angrily.
“More sickening than sick, Nel,” Ben said in a rising voice. “It’s time to grow up and have a little consideration for others. You have put Miss Christopher out of her bed to come here and mind you, and she has a great deal of work to do tomorrow. Your stunt hasn’t worked. We know Moore’s here; we know you mean to go running after him like a common little baggage. Your trick hasn’t worked, so you might as well go to sleep and let us do likewise.”
“You’re just jealous!” Nel taunted. “I won’t marry you, so don’t think it.”
“You won’t be asked, by me or anyone else of any sense if you keep on in this fashion.”
“I have been asked.”
“Yes, by Moore. What do you think is the attraction? Your big blue eyes? No, my girl, it’s your big fat dowry. He’d marry a wall-eyed bedlamite if she had a full purse. If you had any sense, you’d have sent that caper merchant packing long ago.”
“You’re just jealous. All the girls like him. Maggie would have taken up with him fast enough if he had ever given her the time of day. But he only loves me.”
“Maggie had the sense to see through him within two days. You are the only one simpleminded enough to fall for his threadbare tale. If he loved you, he would not ask you to run off with him. He’d speak to your uncle, like a gentleman.”
“Thanks to you, Uncle Anglin won’t see him.”
“Thanks to you, Anglin is unable to see Moore or anyone else. And yes, I take credit for informing your uncle that Moore is a gazetted fortune hunter. Now lie down and go to sleep. I’m not calling any doctor. Miss Christopher is not going to leave you alone either, so you have no chance of giving us the slip tonight.”
At
this harsh treatment, Nel recovered entirely. She hopped right out of bed, wearing nothing but an attractive lawn nightie. With a shocked glance at Allingcote, Clara grabbed Nel’s wrap from a chair and threw it over the girl’s shoulders.
“You waste your time trying to introduce any semblance of propriety into the same room with Miss Muldoon, Clara,” Allingcote said, staring at Nel with disgust.
“What do I care about propriety?” Nel challenged, lifting her nose at Clara. “I am not a poor relation who must watch her every step.”
Ben took a step toward her, but stopped, as if afraid what he might do. “What do you care about anything but getting your own way? Running your poor old uncle into a heart attack, and pray save us the poor little orphan scene. It has ceased to impress me. Miss Christopher, having been an orphan herself since she was twelve, will not be conned with it either. You are a selfish hoyden. Your basic ill-nature has been strengthened by unwise people pandering to you, only because you have inherited more money than is good for you. No credit accrues to you because your father was wealthy. It is past time someone told you the truth about yourself, Nel. Your tricks were barely acceptable in a child. In a young lady, they are disgusting. You are disgusting to any person of any refinement. I have undertaken to get you to London to save your uncle further anguish. Once you are there, I wash my hands of you.”
A tear trembled at the corner of Nel’s eye, but her tirade soon told them it was a tear of anger at having her whim thwarted. “Don’t think I care what you think of me, or her either.” She tossed her curls briefly in Clara’s direction. “Much I care for the good opinion of a penniless spinster who battens herself on all her relations. She didn’t come to the inn to look after me either, but only to have an excuse to be with you. She has been tossing her cap at you ever since you got to Branelea. Everyone is laughing at her. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if she is sneaking off to your room after I go to sleep.”
Allingcote lurched forward, then restrained himself with a visible effort. His jaw was rigid and his hands were clenched into fists. “Will you please slap this wench, Clara, before I do it myself.”
Clara was too overcome to do anything physical. “I am rather careful what I touch,” she said in a glacial voice. She stared in disbelief at Nel for a moment, till she had recovered sufficiently to turn on her heel and retreat to her own room. She could not help hearing what followed, however, for Allingcote’s voice was raised very loud.
“That was unforgivable, Nel. You will go at once and apologize to Miss Christopher.”
“I will not.”
“Go!” His voice was muffled, but it roared like thunder.
Clara thought there might have been some corporal inducement as well, perhaps a shove or a tweak of the ear, as Nel let out a little shriek of protest. In a moment she came through the curtain, with Allingcote behind her, and apologized, not very convincingly.
“I’m sorry, Miss Christopher.”
“That is quite all right, Miss Muldoon. One always considers the source of an insult before taking offense,” Clara said in a scathing voice.
Nel appeared to consider this as forgiveness and returned to her room. Clara heard the outer door close. Silence reigned once again in the two rooms. For Clara, sleep was impossible after this scene of turmoil. It goaded her further to hear, in a short while, the peaceful, measured sounds of Nel’s breaths. The impossible chit had fallen to sleep herself, after making sleep impossible for everyone else. She was not the least bit sick. Clara had no tolerance of hatred, but if she could hate anyone, it would be Nel Muldoon.
She lay awake for hours, thinking of the insults she had received. The sting was sharper for the tiny grain of truth in Nel’s accusations. She had not exactly set her cap at Ben, but she had not discouraged his attentions as she should have. Even when she believed him involved with Nel, she had allowed him to flirt with her, to hold her hand. She had not come to the inn to sneak into his room, but the fact that he was nearby thrilled her.
The awful possibility that Nel was right, and people were laughing at her was the hardest to take of all. So many other friends and relatives assembled there, watching her make a fool of herself. On top of all the rest, a wayward lady would receive few invitations to visit. Herbert, the Oglethorpes, Maximilian—all had witnessed her behavior. Daylight had begun to filter through the curtains before she finally fell into a fitful, troubled doze.
At seven o’clock in the morning Clara awoke without being called. She got up into a cold room with no fire lit and no time to call a servant. She did no more than pat cold water on her gritty eyes and splash it on her hands and face before shivering into her gown. She ran a brush over her hair hastily, thinking to slip out unseen and make her wedding toilette at Branelea. She peeked through the curtains to see Nel sleeping peacefully, with her hands outside the coverlet, palms turned up like a baby. The dormant form had no charm for her now. She was tempted to empty the cold water jug on Nel, but restrained the impulse.
Noiselessly she slipped out of the room and down the hall. As she passed Allingcote’s door, it opened. The face that looked out at her was as tired as her own. That wan face and his rumpled jacket said as clear as day that he hadn’t slept all night. “Can I talk to you for a minute, Clara?” His voice was uncertain, as if fearing a rebuff. He held the door wide for her to enter.
“In the hallway, if you please. I would not want to lend credence to the rumor that I spend my nights trying to invade your room.”
Ben stepped into the hallway. He looked at her and shook his head, with some weary exhaling of breath that was not quite a definable word. “What can I say? I’m very, very sorry, Clara. And after you have gone to so much trouble for her.”
“You don’t have to apologize for her. Her bad manners are not your fault.”
“The whole mess is my fault. She is in my charge. I shouldn’t have dragged you into it.”
“Spilled milk,” she said dismissingly. “I must go.”
“I don’t suppose you got any sleep at all?”
“A little. You don’t look as though you did.”
Ben just sighed. “My valet is coming a little later. I’ll freshen up for the wedding and see if I can get my eyes wedged open with something. I’m taking her on to London tomorrow, thank God.”
“Then we shall have the pleasure of her company at Branelea again this evening. At least Prissie and Oglethorpe will be gone. I expect I shall be in bed with a sick headache by then. I really must go now. I leave no message to be conveyed to your friend. Good-bye.” She took a step, but Allingcote caught her arm and detained her.
“Clara,” he said in a wheedling tone, “you can’t let that spiteful girl spoil things for us. This is absurd.”
Clara’s eyes were heavy from lack of sleep, and her temper was short. “I don’t see that she’s spoiled anything for you in any case, and I think my reputation will endure her scandalmongering. I would appreciate it if you could use your influence with her to keep her from repeating her stories, however. Now I really must leave.”
“We’ll talk later,” he called softly as she hastened toward the stairway.
Chapter Thirteen
Lady Lucker rose promptly at seven on the great day. Like Clara, she dressed hastily to do a few necessary chores before making her grand toilette. She had a very nice ecru lace to be put on later, the material bought at a reduced price due to some discoloration of the bolt. By careful tailoring, the darker patch was completely hidden under her arms. With her orchid from a neighbor’s conservatory and her pearls, the gown looked unexceptionable. Add her sable cape over the top for the trip to the church, and she knew that no words but words of praise would be said of it.
She had a cup of coffee and toast with Clara when Clara came down. They were the only two besides the servants who were up to appreciate this calm before the storm of activity. Lady Lucker had so many apprehensions regarding the weather, food, flowers, and carriages that she did not think to inquire for Mi
ss Muldoon, and Clara was in no frame of mind to raise the girl’s name.
“You’ll see that someone takes Georgiana and Gertrude up in their carriage to the church, Clara? The Allingcotes have two carriages for the three of them, and Maximilian is all alone. He’ll find nothing but bone to pinch on that pair. Oh, and the punch! You have the receipt?”
“Indeed I have.”
“The sparkling water goes in last, mind. I want the punch to sparkle. You must taste it to see it’s sweet enough, but not too sweet. Oh and Clara, be sure you nip down to the kitchen when you have finished your coffee and see that Cook has breakfast started. Three kettles of water boiling and a good fire on. It is too early yet to start the gammon and eggs, but Maximilian will want a cup of tea in his room at nine. I don’t see why guests must insist on having themselves served in their rooms at such a busy time. The pearls he gave Prissie are quite magnificent, however. He was always so fond of her. I had rather thought a small string of diamonds, but I have come to think a large rope of pearls is better.”
Clara gulped her coffee and for the next couple of hours she hadn’t a moment to think of anything but what errand she was supposed to be doing. She dashed about putting the final touch on flowers for the tables, checking the table settings, running to the kitchen to ensure the proper contributions were being served up, and sending servants upstairs later to see that everyone was up.
She saw Allingcote’s coach drive up and made a point to be out of the way when Miss Muldoon came in. Nel was to share Maggie’s room and abigail for the dressing. At ten o’clock, Clara went to Lady Lucker’s room, which she was to use for her own dressing. Lady Lucker had dressed earlier and Clara had it to herself.
With no servant to assist her, she slipped into her old rose gown with the new lace, her pearls, and black patent slippers. She looked pale and drawn after her sleepless night. With a sense of daring, she dipped into her hostess’s rouge pot. A rankling resentment lingered that she should look her worst for this special occasion. Bad enough she had to wear a gown two years old—would he remember it?—but worse that she looked haggard from lack of sleep.
