A Loyal Companion

by Barbara Metzger

  Monsieur Gautier called that afternoon. The coiffeur studied Miss Randolph from every angle. He lifted a curl, he let a wave drift through his fingers. He chewed his mustache. Then he began to cut. He cut and he cut, muttering all the while. Sunny was beginning to wonder how many sheep Bud Kemp could have shorn in this time when the slender Frenchman stood back, kissed his fingertips, and proclaimed, “A la cherubim.” He had to pause to wipe his eyes. “I am a genius.”

  Sonia shook her head and felt three pounds lighter. She laughed in delight. Then she finally turned to look in the mirror. “Oh, sir, you are.” What had been unruly wisps and wayward locks was now a golden halo of naturally and Gautier-tumbled curls, curls that couldn’t fall down or fly away. They framed her face, revealing the high cheekbones and ready dimples. Her blue eyes sparkled even brighter. Not quite an angel, not quite an imp, and very, very appealing.

  “What do you think, Fitz?” Hearing his name, the dog ran over and barked, bestowing the cut hair more liberally around himself and the room. “And, Bigelow, do you like it? Do you think Grandmama will? What about the gentlemen?”

  “Yes. Yes. Heaven help them.”

  *

  The next major project, in addition to writing out two hundred invitations, hiring an orchestra, and planning a menu, was finding servants. One of the underfootmen was promoted—or not, depending on who you asked, Marston or Bigelow—to be Miss Sonia’s personal man. Redheaded Ian was big, strong, and liked dogs.

  An abigail had to be hired from an agency. Bigelow thought they should request an experienced older woman to pilot Miss through the shoals of society. Marston wanted to hire a warden from Newgate. Sonia selected her own maid partly because Maisie Holbrook had freckles and partly because she looked as if she needed the job. Holbrook’s last mistress had suddenly eloped—“with no connivance from me, on my honor, ma’am”—and Miss Martingale’s parents had turned the abigail off without a reference. The position was secured when the neatly dressed young woman, not very much older than Sonia, said, “That’s a fine-looking dog, ma’am. Can I walk him for you sometimes?”

  At first Maisie and Ian were inclined to be over-protective, especially after receiving their instructions from the dowager duchess, through Marston and Bigelow. Ian was terrified of all three of them, and Maisie knew another social misstep would end her own career. Ian insisted on holding Fitz’s lead in the park, lest Miss Randolph be tugged or tripped. Maisie wanted to fuss for hours over Miss Randolph’s hair and clothes.

  Sonia swayed the pair to her way of doing things with two simple sentences: “Lady Atterbury does not pay your wages. I do.” After all, she was Allison Harkness’s daughter. So she got to Astley’s Amphitheater and the Menagerie and London Bridge and the cathedrals with no one the wiser, and struck up friendships with flower girls and pie-men and the Watch and a kindly old gentleman who fed the squirrels in the park. He didn’t even mind that Fitz chased the squirrels away, as long as he didn’t catch any.

  *

  Lady Atterbury was pleased with her granddaughter’s progress. Bigelow judged her passable, and Marston was relieved there were no further Incidents. With more than a fortnight still to go before the ball, they deemed her ready to get her feet wet with minor socializing, to test the waters, so to speak, at small, private gatherings of the dowager’s set. Sonia nearly drowned from boredom.

  Lady Atterbury’s crowd was not comprised of the great hostesses of the day, the Almack’s patronesses and such. Her coterie contained instead those powerful figures’ mothers and aunts and belles mères. The old beldams were therefore an even greater force to be reckoned with. They got together of an afternoon for silver loo, charitable committee meetings, musicales, poetry readings, and scientific dissertations. They also served up the latest gossip along with their tea and culture.

  Sonia was not expected to participate in the conversations, thank goodness. In fact, she was often waved away to a secluded corner after her appearance and demeanor were scrutinized, lest her innocent ears be sullied. Many of the ladies refused to carry their ear trumpets, however, so the conversations were perforce loud enough not only to reach Sonia, but to rise above Herr Mitteldorf’s performance on the harpsichord. Few of the grandes dames could rise without a footman’s help after the performance, in fact, and fewer could see Herr Mitteldorf at all without their spectacles or looking glasses. Sonia thought she must be the only one there with all of her teeth, until she noticed another young woman across the way, concentrating not on the music or the chitchat, but on the book in her lap.

  The young woman read her way through a lecture on the electrical properties of wool carpets, and through a dramatic presentation of an endlessly epic poem by a lisping young man with flowing locks.

  Sonia made sure she sat near the young lady at the next gathering, a report from the directors of St. Bartleby’s Institute for the Destitute, to which no one listened. The girl, for she could not be much older than Sonia, did not raise her eyes from her book, but she did reach into her reticule and pull out a matching purple-covered volume. “Here,” she said, “you’ll need this.”

  “This” was a purple-prosed gothic from the Minerva Press, and the young woman was Blanche Carstairs.

  “Lady Blanche if you care for those things,” Sonia’s new friend and literary advisor introduced herself at the intermission. “I’m a countess in my own right, but don’t let that bother you. I don’t. It’s one of those ancient land-grant titles that can pass through the female line. That’s my aunt over there, the one in puce who is snoring.”

  Blanche—they were quickly on a first-name basis—was a drab, graceless type of girl, with little conversation and less fashion sense, but she knew everything. She flipped the pages of her book. “They think I’m not listening, so they say anything. Like how you’re expected to make a grand alliance, despite coming from the gentry, if you don’t make a mull of things.”

  Sonia gasped in indignation, but Blanche held her hand up. “It don’t fadge. They”—she nodded toward the clusters of crones—“say I won’t take, especially being fired off the same time as you, but Auntie says the lands and title will turn the trick. Of course, my dowry isn’t as large as yours.”

  “Do you mean they all know the size of my dowry?”

  “Goosecap, they all know the size of your shoes!” Blanche went back to her book. Sunny shrugged, then opened hers.

  *

  Some new, younger faces were added the afternoon Grandmama held open house. The old ladies trotted forth spotty-faced, stammering grandsons just down from university, bored middle-aged bachelor sons, and the occasional rakish man-about-town nephew who owed his living to the ancient relative.

  “The hounds are on the scent,” Blanche commented, making Sonia smile. They’d reluctantly put their books away for the afternoon. Sonia liked reading about the dashing heroes and put-upon heroines far more than she did pouring tea and listening to empty chitchat and insincere flattery.

  Sonia finally got to meet Grandmama’s goddaughter Rosellen Conover, Lady Conare, a brittle young matron who covered her slightly faded beauty in flamboyant dress. Rosellen was supposed to chaperone Sonia for the season. The older woman’s eyes narrowed to slits when she saw Miss Randolph’s fresh young beauty.

  “Why, Lady Almeria, whatever can you be thinking?” Lady Conare chided. “Surely the chit’s too young to be presented. She looks a veritable schoolgirl. Or a little milkmaid.”

  Lady Atterbury just cackled and waggled her sticklike finger under the woman’s nose. “Told you she was a Diamond, didn’t I?”

  Lady Atterbury’s assessment was quickly and eloquently seconded by Lady Rosellen’s escort and brother, Lord Ansel, Baron Berke. The baron was a fairly attractive man of about thirty, trim if not muscular, and exquisitely tailored. There was just a touch of dandyism in his patterned waistcoat, crossed fobs, and heavy scent. Nor could Sonia appreciate the way he looked at her through his quizzing glass. Still, he was friendly and polite, and
his compliments went far to restoring Sonia’s confidence after his sister’s cutting remarks. She was further impressed with Baron Berke when she saw him cross to where Blanche sat alone and unpopular—until she spoke to her friend later as they exchanged books.

  “Berke? He’s one of the season’s catches, you know. They say his pockets are to let, so he’s bound to settle on some heiress or other this year.”

  “Are you sure? He certainly didn’t look like he was all to pieces.”

  “Don’t be a goose. The worst wastrel in town can dress elegantly; he just don’t pay his tailor. Berke’s not that bad off. Yet.”

  “Well, he seemed pleasant enough.”

  “Of course he did; he’d never land an heiress else, title or no! Did he tell you that you were a breath of springtime, a bud of perfection just waiting to open? Did he kiss your hand and say he was honored to be among the first to touch the bloom?”

  Sonia giggled. “You, too? Oh dear, and I thought he was the nicest of the gentlemen here today.”

  “You mean he was the only one with any conversation at all, even if it was Spanish coin. They”—Blanche nodded toward where her aunt and Lady Atterbury had their heads together—“say he was dangling after a rich Cit’s daughter, but he’d sooner take you with your looks and money, or me for the title and lands. Do you think you’d have him?”

  Sonia laughed, saying, “After you convinced me not to believe a word he says?” She tapped the book in her hand. “I’d rather have Count Rudolpho than a husband I couldn’t trust!”

  *

  So, like Diogenes, I set out to find an honest man.

  Chapter Six

  I was taught that honesty means I am not to sleep on the furniture, even if no one is home. Honesty means not taking food from the kitchen when Cook isn’t looking, unless it falls on the floor. I am a good dog.

  Human persons are different. They make laws about honesty and then they break them. Sometimes this is a crime, sometimes not. Poaching happens to be a crime, but it is also dishonest—and confuses the game animals. Squire Randolph was very strict with poachers, yet he had no scruples about telling lies: “Here now, Bossy, we’re just going to borrow your pretty little calf.” To excuse these moral lapses, humans call them social lies, white lies, flummery. For Spot’s sake, even poor colorblind Bossy can recognize a faradiddle when she hears one.

  They do it all the time, calling such falsehoods polite fibs: “Delighted to see you. So glad you could call. You are looking lovely. I adored your gift. Please come back soon.” Miss Merkle explained that gentlemen and ladies bend the truth a shade here and there so no one’s feelings will be hurt. When the knacker comes and they tell the decrepit old plow horse, “Here, boy, we’re just going to take a little walk,” you know something more than feelings are going to be hurt!

  No wonder animals have learned to distrust men. Still, I say don’t listen to the words, listen to the heart. An animal can tell the truth. Just like I listened to what Lord Ansel Berke didn’t say.

  I was waiting in the hall when company came, quiet so Marston would not notice. Having studied under Muffy, I was pretending to be a scatter rug. Not my finest role, but I was not dragged back to the kitchens. Miss Sonia spotted me right away—she always does—when she walked some of the departing guests to the door. As soon as Marston turned his back to fetch Baron Berke’s gloves, hat, and walking stick, she introduced us. We shook hands. He patted my head and said, “What a fine dog, Miss Randolph. Smart and handsome.” Then he wiped his hands on a cloth.

  He did not commit a crime, like stealing eggs from a chicken coop, or a sin, like stealing the chickens. But he does not have a true heart. A dog always knows.

  Miss Sonia deserved better, so I had to expand our horizons. Somewhere in this great city of London…

  *

  I had never been on foot beyond the park before. Always we went sightseeing in the carriage, and I waited on the box with the driver outside the Tower or Westminster, marveling at mankind’s achievements and wondering why they bothered. I could only sniff at the passing strangers from my high perch; now I would be down among them. I was looking forward to exploring on my own while Miss Sonia had her final fittings. Tippy the turnspit dog says there are rats as big as cats!

  I saw one myself, a surly fellow with a half-chewed ear. He wouldn’t give me the time of day, much less any hints as to where I should begin my search. Muffy was right, city folk aren’t as friendly, for even the horses didn’t stop when I asked directions. The heavy workers were short-tempered beasts in a great rush to get nowhere that I could tell. The fancier cattle were all twitchy nerves and bunched muscle, ready to explode. I stopped asking. I kept going, following my nose as it were, and oh, the smells! And the sights and the noise and the traffic. Even the air had myriad tastes. And men, hustling, bustling, busy. A few glanced my way, one tried to kick me, another held out a cup—and it was empty! Mostly they were in a hurry. I may have been a tad optimistic about my search.

  I always knew where I was, of course. Hadn’t I been carefully marking my way? Much too soon, though, I had spent every penny, out of sheer excitement, I suppose, so I decided to return home. But there were buildings in the way and high fences, and alleys no dog should walk down by himself. The smoke was so thick, I could not even sniff my own scent in the air, and a pair of livery horses pulling a hackney poked fun when I asked my way back to Grosvenor Square.

  “’Ere now, who’s ’e think ’e is, some poodle wot gets ’is blinkin’ toenails painted?”

  “Oi say ’e ain’t no gennlemun’s dog, ’e’s one of those baa-baa baby-sitters. Ya wants th’ sheep pens out Marlybone way, ya ’airy botfly.”

  I wished them high hills and heavy loads, then I showed them my heels.

  Did Diogenes ever get lost?

  *

  “Damn and blast! First those fools at the surgeon general’s and now this!” The curricle was stuck in traffic, between a mail coach with a bunch of unruly schoolboys on top and a barouche whose high-pitched occupant was obviously no better pleased than the officer at the curricle’s ribbons. Most likely some high-priced cyprian en route to her lover, he deduced from the garish red and gold trim on the outside of the expensive turnout, and the unladylike expressions coming from within. The officer cursed again, that he’d have time to listen to the high flyer’s entire repertoire before this mess was cleared.

  Gads, how he hated the city! He hated everything about it, including those clunches at the War Office who wouldn’t send him back to Portugal without the medicos’ approval. They, and that popinjay from the Cabinet, wanted him to sell out now that he’d come into the title. As if England needed another blasted nobleman more than the general needed him at the front. As if he ever asked to be earl in the first place. He cursed his brother Milo for up and dying. Well, he’d told them he wasn’t selling out yet, and he wasn’t using that damned title while he was in uniform. Major Darius Conover, Lord Warebourne whether he acknowledged it or not, was barely holding his high-bred cattle in check, and his temper not at all.

  His batman, Sergeant Robb, got down to soothe the impatient bays, and to put a distance between him and the major’s ill humor. The major liked to throw things when he was in a taking, and Lord knew, there wasn’t much in a curricle to toss.

  Church bells chimed the hour, and Major Conover whacked his driving whip onto the floorboards. “Dash it, I told my nieces I’d drive them in the park this afternoon. Now they’ll hate me even worse!”

  Thinking he might do better to soothe his employer after all, Robb said, “Here now, Major, them tykes don’t hate you, they hardly know you. They’re just upset, both parents poppin’ off like that, and then bein’ shipped to relatives what didn’t want ’em, and now landin’ back here with you. It’s no wonder the little ones are confused.”

  “Confused? That’s gammon. The baby Bettina cries if I get near her, Genessa in the middle tries to kick me—my bad leg to boot—and the eldest, Benice, is so st
iff and polite, I’m afraid she’ll shatter into a million pieces one day.” He beat his cane against the curricle’s rail. “My blackguard of a cousin Preston and his bitch of a wife set them against me. Confused? I’m the one who should be confused. I’ve never been around children in my life!”

  “You’re doin’ fine, Major. It just takes time.”

  “I don’t have time, Robby. I want to go back and see Boney put down at last. And it’s not as if I’m doing the girls any good here. I even thought of marrying to get them a mother, so I could go back and get myself killed. But no respectable female would have me, with my name as black as mud.”

  “Not with the army, sir. Why, you’re one of the heroes of the Peninsula, Major. I ’spect that’s because you’d go back to all that mud and heat and poor grub, if you had your druthers, rather than stay here and be a nob.” The sergeant’s dour expression conveyed his own opinion. Lord knew he’d follow the major to hell and back, but Robb figured they’d already been to hell. “I don’t see what’s so bad about two country properties,” he said with the familiarity of shared battlefields, “a huntin’ box, the London town house, and a healthy income. Why, you could take a seat in Parliament if you wanted, sir, and get the army boys better rations. So what if some Tulip cut us in the park? At least we don’t have to go forage for food.”

  The major didn’t throw his cane. He didn’t want to scare the horses. “Stubble it, Robb. Go see what the devil is holding us up.”

  While his man was gone, Major Conover tried to shut out the bawdy ditties from the mail coach and the less frequent screeches from the barouche. What was so wrong with being an earl? How about dragging up all the old scandal, or not being admitted to his brother’s clubs, or his nieces thinking he was so terrible, he ate children for breakfast? How about not being trained to administer those vast holdings? How about worrying about the succession? He’d do anything in his power, including giving up his commission and his career, just to keep Warebourne and the girls’ inheritances safe away from Preston. Tarnation, he’d even marry the lightskirt in the barouche.