by M C Beaton
She and her brother went about their duties with a false air of calm and willing obedience and only Frederica was not deceived. She had heard Mrs. Lawton whispering to her brother that “one day, she will be on her own here and then we’ll get our revenge.”
Frederica had shuddered and determined never to live at Chartsay without the escort of her strong husband. She was in no doubt that she was the “she” referred to so viciously. She had mentioned the overheard conversation to her husband at a moment when he was busy and pressed for time. He had accused her rather abruptly of being over-sensitive and pointed out if she were to take up the habit of eavesdropping, she would be in for a lot of nasty surprises. Then he had ridden off before she could protest.
She could only be glad that her husband had even less time for Clarissa than for herself, although Clarissa seemed to make the best of her few moments, always smiling, always beautiful, and always hinting at some secret intimacy with her large expressive eyes.
But Clarissa was privately wearying of the game—especially since the arrival of Archie Hefford. She also felt caged by Jack Ferrand’s perpetual stage-managing and when he informed her that the Duke was going dressed as Sir Walter Raleigh, and that she should therefore go as Queen Elizabeth, she had yawned and said vaguely, “Oh, very well.”
Her little stepsister, Clarissa was beginning to realize, could be quite charming company—although decidedly naive. Look at the way she kept working on that great horse of an Emily who was breaking her heart over Archie Hefford.
Jack Ferrand was not very worried over Clarissa’s apparent lack of interest in revenge. All it needed, he knew, with people of Clarissa’s nature, was some small slight, some prick to their vanity, to bring the wrong side uppermost. He would wait until an opportunity arose.
Little Frederica danced through the great halls, checking on the needs of her guests, and cheerfully made plans for Emily’s happiness. Her sister-in-law, she decided, should go as Cleopatra. With a black wig, and a little stain on her face to darken her skin, Frederica was sure she would look magnificent. Mrs. Sayers overheard her idea and related it to Clarissa. “Pon rep!” cried Mrs. Sayers, wiping her streaming eyes, “Can you imagine that great maypole of a girl as the Queen of the Nile?”
Clarissa gave a cat-like smile. “And wait until the great maypole hears of my betrothal to Archie Hefford.”
“Indeed!” cried her mother. “At last, my child. When did he propose?”
“He didn’t,” said Clarissa, adding with languid assurance, “but he will. I shall be the most beautiful girl present, shall I not?”
“Yes, my dear,” said her mama dutifully.
But it was not a simple little prick to her vanity that Clarissa was to experience on the night of the ball—it was a series of full-scale humiliations.
At the start, she felt that her Queen Elizabeth costume was too cumbersome and her hair scraped under the high Tudor cap was hardly becoming. She was about to remove it and wear an ordinary ballgown but then she thought, since she would be such a perfect foil for the Duke, that she would be taken to be the Duchess by many who had not yet met Frederica. And Clarissa had enough malice left in her heart to enjoy that prospect.
In order to make an effective appearance, she kept to her rooms until the last minute before descending the staircase to join the reception line into the ballroom. Almost the first person she saw was the Duke, shaking hands with his guests. To her horror, he had changed his mind and elected to wear modern evening dress, a glittering mask his only concession to the masquerade. The diminutive and exquisite figure of the little Spanish princess stood beside him and, through eyes misted with jealousy, Clarissa realized that her little stepsister had surpassed herself. Frederica was dressed in a black lace crinoline which accentuated her tiny waist and creamy bosom. Her midnight black hair which had never been cut to the modern fashion was piled high on her head and confined by an ebony comb and a black lace mantilla.
Queen Elizabeth in her massive Tudor gown, her face rigid with anger under her awe-inspiring cap, found herself in danger of being a wallflower for the first time in her life. The gentlemen took one look at that forbidding figure and began to court less terrifying-looking ladies. By the time Clarissa had fled to her room, beaten her maid, reduced the hairdresser to tears and torn every ballgown out of her closet until she could find something suitable, over an hour had passed. When she finally descended, looking her usual exquisite self, she had regained some of her former good humor. Several gentlemen who had sworn to favor the card room and not dance at all, suddenly changed their minds at her appearance and she was again courted and feted in the manner she was accustomed to. She was determined to have her revenge on Jack Ferrand for suggesting such a ridiculous costume when the music abruptly stopped.
The Duke mounted to the musicians’ gallery and held up his hands for silence. “It gives me great pleasure,” he cried, “to announce the engagement of my dear sister, Emily, to my very dear friend, Archie Hefford!” He smiled and waved his hands towards the long windows where the couple was standing outside on the terrace. Everyone applauded and Clarissa turned slowly. Could that be Emily? Good, old, plain, dull Emily? She was a real figure in her gold and black Egyptian robe with a long silky black wig and a high gold helmet. Her face was transfigured with happiness and love.
Clarissa’s heart burned with black hate. The glittering throng applauded and cheered, their masked faces glittering in the candlelight, seeming to Clarissa like so many mocking demons. She had been so sure of Archie Hefford. So sure! Someone would pay for this, and dearly. She turned and saw Jack Ferrand watching her with a malicious gleam in his usually pleasant eyes. “Come into the grounds, sir,” she hissed. “I would have a reckoning with you!”
“But of course, dear lady,” he said smoothly, offering her his arm. Clarissa walked in a seething silence, almost dragging her companion along with her until they reached the rotunda where Frederica had once sat with Mrs. Witherspoon.
Clarissa rounded on him, her eyes blazing. “Now Mr. Ferrand…” she began, and then broke off. He had drawn a pistol from the pocket of his highway-man’s costume and it was pointing straight at her heart.
“Take off your clothes, Clarissa,” he demanded.
She turned white with anger and fear. “I will do no such thing. Are you mad?”
By way of an answer, he pressed the gun against her ribs.
Tears of pure rage and fright began to roll down Clarissa’s cheeks. “No!” she cried, backing away from him. “Why do you do this to me, sir? Have I not helped you enough? My mother will.…”
He gave her a jeering laugh. “That old upstart can’t do much for you when you are lying lifeless. I repeat… take off your clothes. You do not do as I say, and I shall shoot you dead. It will be assumed that some prowler killed you in the grounds. I have alibi enough, I assure you!”
Clarissa looked into his pitiless eyes and realized she had no other choice. Turning her back to him, she fumbled with the fastenings to her dress and with trembling fingers let it fall to the ground at her feet. The moonlight illuminated the rotunda with a soft radiance, showing him Clarissa’s trembling back. She was wearing the latest thing in scanty petticoats and pale pink silk stockings delicately embroidered with silver thread, rolled below the knee.
His cold light eyes raked over her body. “Just as I had hoped,” he said at last. “That is quite a disfiguring birthmark you have on your left thigh.”
Clarissa felt the blush starting at the soles of her feet and rising to the top of her head. To think she had overcome her mother’s protests against the new flimsy, transparent petticoats!
Jack Ferrand’s voice was heavy with menace. “Now, listen to me, my girl. You will do what I say or I will tell the world and his wife that I have lain with you. I will be able to describe the little mole there… and there… and of course the birthmark. Your mother will not dare deny it. You will be labelled Haymarket ware, my dear, and never will you win your t
itle. Now, you will entice the Duke into some compromising situation so that his little wife thinks him unfaithful. I will then persuade the hurt couple to return to London where it will be easier to keep them apart. Tell anyone of this evening and I will kill you. Put on your clothes.”
Clarissa looked at him wide-eyed. “You are not going to rape me then?” He walked round the shivering girl and surveyed her insolently from head to toe.
“Rape! You,” he laughed. “Good God, it would turn my stomach.” And still laughing, he turned and left her.
After he had gone, Clarissa slowly put on her clothes. Her very brain seemed to be warped and twisted with hate. First she would indeed revenge herself on Frederica. Had it not been for Frederica, she could have married the Duke. Had Frederica not interfered, then she could have married Archie Hefford. And after she was finished with Frederica and married to some rich lord and did not have to account for her expenses as she had to at the moment with such a prying mama, she would pay and pay dearly to get Jack Ferrand removed from the face of the earth.
She glided quietly into the ballroom and was soon surrounded by the group of admirers. Over their shoulders she saw the Duke dancing with his wife. He was smiling tenderly down at her. There was no time to be lost.
The Duke was at that moment remembering the feel of Frederica’s body underneath his on the bed that night they had had their quarrel and was making up his mind that it would be pleasant to repeat the experience… but in a more tranquil atmosphere. Everytime she looked into his eyes, Frederica’s heart sang with joy. They paused at the edge of the dance floor when the music ceased, pleased with their home, and suddenly very happy in each other’s company. Clarissa came dancing up and some of Frederica’s happiness spilled over as Clarissa pouted prettily and said her dance card was half empty because she had looked such a quiz as Queen Elizabeth.
“Oh, Henry will dance with you,” cried Frederica, giving Clarissa an impulsive hug. “It is the waltz and you know how you love to waltz!”
Clarissa moved readily into the Duke’s arms and, after giving them one indulgent look, Frederica went to sit beside Mrs. Cholmley.
As the dance led them near the windows, Clarissa saw Jack Ferrand watching her and shivered. “You are cold!” exclaimed the Duke. “Let us go away from the windows.”
“No, indeed, I am warm enough,” said Clarissa, “but I am in very great trouble and I need your advice. Could you step onto the terrace with me? Just for a moment.”
The heavy curtains had been drawn against the night air and the Duke hesitated a moment, doubtful of the propriety of the suggested move. But Clarissa’s beautiful eyes were bright with unshed tears and she indeed seemed to be in trouble. He pulled back the curtains and ushered her out onto the terrace.
“How can I aid you, Miss Sayers?” he asked politely. She gave a breathless little laugh. “Oh, call me Clarissa. We are related now, you know.” This was received with a stiff bow so she hurried on. “I am in such deep trouble. Mr. Ferrand has proposed to me and I do not know whether to accept or not.”
“That is surely a matter for your heart to decide.”
She moved closer to him. “But my heart is already engaged.” A perfect tear rolled down her cheek. “When you proposed to me, I wanted… oh so much… to say yes. But mama made me refuse. That is why I was so cruel. I do not care for titles or for any other man.”
He made a half turn to leave. “I find this conversation distasteful,” he said coldly. “Also, it is insulting to my wife.”
“I know I am behaving badly,” breathed Clarissa. “But I am so jealous of her.” This indeed held all the ring of truth. “I feel that I should settle for a conventional marriage. There, you see! I have decided to be sensible. I shall accept Mr. Ferrand perhaps.”
“Really, Clarissa,” protested the Duke. “What is it you want of me?”
“Just one kiss of farewell,” she said sadly. “Is it so much to ask?”
He looked at her doubtfully. “I suppose not. Now, if I kiss you, will you go back to the ballroom and try to forget all this nonsense.”
“Oh yes,” she sighed, winding her arms around his neck.
“See how closely they cling together,” whispered Jack Ferrand in Frederica’s ear. He had drawn the curtain a little way to reveal the Duke with Clarissa in his arms. He had waltzed her away from Mrs. Cholmley and across the dance floor after Clarissa and the Duke, praying that his timing would be right.
He was almost disappointed when Frederica neither went out on the terrace to make a scene or fled from the ballroom. With two burning spots of color on her cheeks, she returned to her guests and chatted and laughed in a high brittle voice until the evening finally came to an end and she could put her aching heart to bed and relieve her feelings in a bout of tears. Only Emily noticed that something was wrong and, had Frederica confided in her, then her troubles would have been at an end. For Emily was a forthright girl and would have challenged her brother on the spot. But Frederica wearily remembered that she had embarked on a marriage of convenience. She had no right to storm or rage at her husband.
She gave a shudder as she saw Jack Ferrand approaching with his usual charming smile. “My dear Duchess,” he whispered. “I am much distressed. It was surely a fleeting moment of weakness on the Duke’s part. After all.…”
“We do not discuss our private affairs,” said Frederica icily. “Be so good as to take your hand from our arm.”
Jack Ferrand raged inwardly. Damn her for her sneering ways. She should be heartbroken. He swallowed his venom and went on smoothly as if she had not spoken. “London is of course a whirl of delights at this time of year,” he said smoothly. “You must miss it.”
Frederica presented him with one black lace shoulder and began to talk to Mrs. Cholmley who called on her butler Stafford for translation. But the idea of London was already burning into Frederica’s brain. In London, she could make friends of her own, and be constantly absent from home, attending everything from Venetian breakfasts to turtle dinners. London should swallow her up, complete with her broken heart.
She smiled and curtsied to the departing guests, never once looking in her husband’s direction. She escaped nimbly to her room as soon as the last guest’s carriage had rumbled down the drive.
She stood as stiff as a wax doll while Benson undressed her, and then tumbled headlong into bed and buried her aching head beneath the pillows. She heard her husband’s light step in the corridor outside and then she heard him enter her sitting room. With a gasp, she flung herself from the bed and locked her door. A minute later, she heard him try the lock. If he had called to her, pleaded with her or said he loved her, she would have swallowed her pride and unlocked the door. But he only remained for a second outside and then she heard him slowly going away to his rooms on the other side of the corridor.
Well, she would declare her intention of returning to London in the morning. And… and… he could stay here with all these horrid servants for all she cared. She would be happy and popular and… and… be all the crack and have lots of beaux. And she would show her handsome husband that she did not care a jot.
And with that comforting thought, she put her head down on the pillow and cried herself to sleep.
Chapter Eight
The Westerland home in Grosvenor Square—if such a modest word as home could apply to the palatial town house—soon saw the Duke and Duchess back in residence.
The Duke had complied with his wife’s request because he had business in town and hoped that the social air would revive his young bride’s moping spirits. Yet he now found himself left alone too much with Clarissa for comfort as Frederica seemed to have a genius at absenting herself at all times of the day.
Unlike Chartsay, the town house had remained fairly untouched since the eighteenth century, boasting pastel tinted walls in the vast reception rooms and flock wallpaper in the private apartments. The carved staircase was a miracle of Grinling Gibbons art and, despite the fact that Mr
. Walpole may have damned the classical fireplace as “little miscarriages into total Ionic,” Frederica felt more at home than in the splendor of Chartsay. Her bedroom reflected the Chinese vogue of the middle of the eighteenth century, having a splendid gold and black lacquered bed with a canopy of writhing scarlet dragons.
The old Duke had kept a completely separate staff at the Grosvenor Square residence, and the difference between it and the one in the country seemed to Frederica incredible. Under the iron rule of a well-trained butler, they were quick, deferential and polite. At the beginning, she had determined to assert herself by making changes on the daily menus presented to her. But these were received by the housekeeper with such smiling goodwill that she eventually left the army of servants to run things themselves since they seemed able to cope efficiently whether she interfered or not. Emily had helped her with a quick survey of the housekeeping accounts and, though the bills seemed horrifying to the as-yet unsophisticated Frederica, Emily assured her that they were quite the thing. She was not being taken advantage of in any way.
The new dashing Emily also suggested that she might modernize the house in the Duke’s absence, but to Frederica modern meant Mrs. Sayers’ passion for noisy and vulgar stripes. She preferred to retain the faded eighteenth-century elegance of her home.
The downstairs salon, mostly used for visitors, was the only modern room, being decorated in the current Egyptian mode with black and gold borders of sphinxes on the walls and sphinxes’ heads staring from the pilasters of the fireplace.
Frederica had plunged into an orgy of spending, buying greens and golds and crimsons for her wardrobe since she did not have to wear the unflattering pastels considered suitable for a debutante. Her circle of acquaintances grew and she became a familiar figure at the opera or in the park.
