by M C Beaton
“Oh, how silly I am,” gasped Patricia finally. “What will everyone think of us?”
“There is no one here to see us,” he said, his voice low and quiet.
Patricia gave a little shiver of apprehension and stood up quickly, her shawl falling from about her shoulders.
He picked it up and stood behind her and draped it gently over her shoulders, his hands coming to rest on her upper arms. They stood very still, each intensely aware of the other.
He unwound a white silk rose from her hair and put it into his waistcoat pocket. She turned and looked up into his face. He looked sad and withdrawn.
They walked in silence back to the box, each deep in thought.
“What is happening to me?” wondered Patricia desperately.
Lord Charles looked up as they approached the box. There was no sign of either of the governesses, the Lucases had gone, and the colonel had not returned. Lit up as if on a small stage sat Mrs. Chalmers and Mary. Both were staring straight ahead. Mrs. Chalmers’ face had a high flush and Mary’s face was set in a mask of disapproval. They looked as if they had been quarreling.
Lord Charles went quickly to Mary’s side, explaining that the colonel had lost Patricia and that he had stayed to escort her. He apologized earnestly for his absence until Mary’s stiff face began to relax.
“Where are Patricia’s governesses?” asked Lord Charles, looking about.
“Miss Sinclair, that good and kind woman,” said Mrs. Chalmers, “felt it her duty to go to try to find you. As for Miss Simpkin! The most dreadful old roué called up to her and she went off with him, gasping and twittering she would not be long. She is a most unsuitable female and not at all like any governess I would employ.”
“But she is kind and has a good heart,” said Patricia.
“So you say,” said Mrs. Chalmers rudely.
Miss Sinclair eventually reappeared with the colonel and the pair of them went into a long involved conversation about how they had tried to find Patricia, how they had called and searched, until Patricia not only began to feel very guilty but looked it. Mary studied Patricia’s downcast face and her own grew stiff and hard again.
“I would like to leave,” she said.
“We will need to find Miss Simpkin first,” said Lord Charles. “Which way did she go? And where are the Lucases?”
“Miss Simpkin went over in that direction,” said Mrs. Chalmers, pointing toward the river. “And a boy came with a message to say the Lucases were gone home.”
Lord Charles set off. He came on Miss Simpkin by chance. She was sitting on a bench in one of the smaller walks with an elderly gentleman by her side. Lord Charles recognized her companion as Sir Egbert Truebury, a rip whose son, Geoffrey, had recently been involved in some scandal over cheating at cards.
Despite the gloom of the walk, Lord Charles noticed the little governess’s face had gone quite white under her rouge.
Sir Egbert lumbered to his feet as Lord Charles came striding up.
“Evening,” he wheezed. “Just chatting to the little lady. Knew each other a long time ago, heh!”
“Are you ready to leave, Miss Simpkin?” asked Lord Charles.
“Yes, yes,” she said faintly.
“Don’t forget what I told you,” said Sir Egbert, wagging a finger playfully at Miss Simpkin, who shrank back as if he had waved a dagger at her.
Miss Simpkin got to her feet and trotted off with Lord Charles. “Have you known Sir Egbert long?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Miss Simpkin breathlessly. “Not that I have seen him for years.”
“You ran some sort of seminary before coming to Burnham House, did you not?”
“Yes,” squeaked Miss Simpkin.
“Was it not a profitable concern? I should think having one’s own seminary infinitely preferable to earning your pay in someone else’s household.”
“I found the strain of managing so many girls too much for me,” said Miss Simpkin. “I sold up.”
He walked on, wondering why the sale had not been enough to set her up for life.
He was aware of her nervousness and uneasiness.
“If you are ever in any trouble,” he said, “I would like you to know you can rely on me.”
“Thank you, my lord.” There was more than a hint of tears in her voice and Lord Charles looked at her curiously. But she averted her face and scurried forward toward the box where the rest of Lord Charles’s party sat waiting.
Lord Charles was very silent. This caused anguish in three bosoms. Patricia felt miserable and wished he would smile at her. Mary Chalmers thought her fiancé had behaved disgracefully and had no right to be so sullen. And Miss Sinclair thought Lord Charles was wishing his engagement at an end and blamed Patricia.
Six
Patricia awoke late the following morning to find Miss Simpkin perched on the end of her bed. She struggled awake. “Is anything the matter, Simpers?”
“No, my dear,” said the governess. “It is just that we never seem to have a comfortable coze together like we did in the old days.”
“You pick the oddest times,” yawned Patricia. “What do you wish to talk about?”
“Why, gentlemen,” said Miss Simpkin brightly. “They are all enamored of you, my love. You have taken London by storm.”
“The news of my fortune has no doubt taken London by storm as well,” said Patricia cynically. “Do you know what I am doing today?”
“Mr. Johnson said that Lord Charles is to take Miss Chalmers to the opera and that he has arranged that Colonel Sommers shall escort you.”
“Colonel Sommers is all very well in his way,” said Patricia. “He is handsome and kind and courteous, but so absent-minded! Half the time he does not seem to know where he is or whom he is with.” She stretched her arms lazily. “Still, I had better look out something grand for the opera. There is that opera gown I started making. It only lacks some ribbon to trim it. Are you going out, Miss Simpkin? Perhaps you could buy some for me.”
“I was hoping we could perhaps go out together,” said Miss Simpkin. “I long to have an ice at Gunter’s. It would not take us very long and you have no arrangements for the afternoon.”
“Perhaps Lord Charles means to take me driving,” said Patricia hopefully.
“No, he is taking Miss Chalmers and her mother to the Park.”
Patricia turned away to hide her disappointment. “In that case, Simpers, I shall take you to Gunter’s and then you can help me choose ribbons for my gown.”
Gunter’s, the famous confectioner’s in Berkeley Square, was crowded. It was about the only place in London where ladies could go to eat cakes and ices unescorted without occasioning comment.
“What is the time?” asked Miss Simpkin as soon as they were seated.
“Two o’clock,” said Patricia, squinting at the fob watch pinned to her bosom. “You keep looking this way and that. Are you expecting someone?”
“No,” said Miss Simpkin nervously. “No, no. Why should I?”
“Silly old thing,” thought Patricia. Aloud, she said, “Miss Sinclair was quite cross when I said I didn’t want her to come with us. She is becoming a bit like a jailor. For some reason, she disapproves of me.”
“I never liked her, you know,” said Miss Simpkin. “So rigid. All that learning. It addles the brain so.”
“But learning is your stock in trade,” said Patricia.
“But genteel subjects. Not geometry and Greek. Only gentlemen should learn those.”
Patricia ordered ices. After a time she said, “Do eat yours. It is melting on your plate. Why do you keep looking about you?”
“I love seeing all the Fashionables. Of all marvelous things! Here is Mr. Geoffrey Truebury.”
Patricia looked up and saw a foppish young man approaching. “Must we meet him…?” she started to say, but Miss Simpkin was already waving to the young man.
“’Pon rep, Miss Simpkin,” said the young exquisite, swaggering up. “You must prese
nt me to this fair charmer.”
“Certainly,” said Miss Simpkin eagerly. “My love, I wish to present Mr. Geoffrey Truebury; Mr. Truebury, Miss Patterson.”
He made Patricia an excellent leg, and then to her annoyance drew out a chair and sat down next to her.
He was a small gentleman, highly painted. The backs of his hands were stained brown with walnut juice and the palms were dyed a delicate pink. He had very long, very pointed, polished nails. His portly figure was encased in a bright blue coat with an amazingly high collar. His shirt points were high enough to deserve the nickname “patricides.”
He smelled strongly of musk and his teeth were bad. His hair was back-combed into a crest on top of his head.
“I am the most fortunate of men,” he fluted. “Dazzled by your beauty, Miss Patterson. Gad’s ’Oonds, that I am. Nothing can compare to your beauty. Not the sun… er… the moon… trees, all that sort of thing,” he ended lamely.
“Unfortunately, you are arrived just as we are leaving,” said Patricia firmly. “I am afraid Miss Simpkin does not relish Gunter’s ices. She has not touched hers.”
“But I love it when it’s melted,” said Miss Simpkin. “Do wait until I am finished.”
“You haven’t even started,” said Patricia, glaring.
Miss Simpkin picked up her spoon and began to eat little tiny drops of melted ice with maddening slowness.
“I believe I shall have the pleasure of seeing you at the opera tonight,” said Mr. Truebury. “And at Lady Blessington’s on the morrow.”
“You are better informed than I,” said Patricia. “Are we going to Lady Blessington’s, Miss Simpkin?”
Miss Simpkin choked slightly and mumbled, “I believe so.”
“My dear Miss Patterson,” said Mr. Truebury, “pray allow me to be your cavalier and escort you to Lady Blessington’s on the morrow. I should like it above all things. Consider myself honored.”
“My guardian is escorting me, Mr. Truebury, so I am in no need of an escort.”
Mr. Truebury tried to take Patricia’s hand. She gave him a startled look and rose to her feet. “Come along, Miss Simpkin,” she said firmly.
“But my ice,” protested Miss Simpkin. “I have hardly begun to eat it.”
“Then you should not be so slow. Good day to you, Mr. Truebury.”
Patricia marched to the door of the confectioner’s. She turned around impatiently, waiting for Miss Simpkin to follow her.
But Miss Simpkin was leaning over Mr. Truebury, muttering something. He replied sharply, his gaze malevolent.
Then the little governess rushed off to join Patricia.
“What was all that about?” demanded Patricia. “What a truly repulsive young man.”
“Oh, no, you must not say that. He is of sterling worth. Quite the sweetest and prettiest of young men in town.”
“How was he so au fait with all my arrangements? Even I did not know about going to Lady Blessington’s.”
Miss Simpkin hesitated, turned red, and then said in a rush, “Well, don’t you see, Lady Blessington must have told him. It is all very simple.”
“What I am about to tell you is also very simple. You are not to encourage that young man to speak to me again.”
To Patricia’s horror, Miss Simpkin began to cry. “I did not mean to offend,” she gulped. “You do not understand. I was very fond of his father once.”
“You ninny,” sighed Patricia. “I shall be civil to him when I see him, but do not arrange any more chance meetings.”
“I didn’t—”
“Oh, yes you did. Dry your eyes or you will never be able to help me choose my ribbons!”
A fine drizzling rain had started to fall as Lord Charles entered the Park with Mary Chalmers beside him. It suited his dark mood, which even the absence of Mrs. Chalmers could not lift.
“That is the trouble with these phaetons,” said his beloved, looking contemptuously from her high perch at one of the most dashing carriages in London. “No protection from the elements.”
“Then it seems I must take you home again.”
“That would be much more pleasant,” she smiled. “We can sit in front of the fire and have a comfortable coze with Mama.”
“My love, after we are married, you cannot expect to see your mother every day, and so perhaps it might be better if we found ways to be a little more on our own.”
“But of course I shall see Mama every day after we are married. She will be living with us.”
“She will what?”
“But I understood you knew,” said Mary. “She is a widow and cannot be left on her own with only the servants for company.”
Lord Charles frowned but said nothing. It was not unusual for a man of his rank and position to find he was expected to house his wife’s relatives as well as his own. The stately homes of England abounded with in-laws, poor relations, eccentric uncles, and half-crazed spinster aunts. Then he had to admit to himself that for some reason he had expected Mary to want to be alone with him. He had almost been on the point of asking her if she did not love him.
Which was ridiculous.
There had never been any question of love on either side. He had chosen a suitable lady of good birth and she had accepted him because he was of her class and accounted a catch. Sometimes, of course, people were lucky… like the Lucases. But usually one married to continue one’s name, or to add to one’s land or fortune.
He realized Mary had begun to talk about Patricia. “She needs something serious to occupy her mind,” Mary was saying.
“Patricia has already studied a great deal,” said Lord Charles. “She is immensely talented and can play the pianoforte and sing like an angel.”
“Sometimes we have talents of which we have long been unaware until one day we discover them,” said Mary.
He thought about Patricia’s flirtatious remark. But Mary could hardly be talking about love.
“You have discovered such a one?”
Mary smiled modestly, a small, curved smile. “I have recently discovered I have a small talent as a poet.”
They had just arrived outside Mary’s home. Lord Charles felt he must escape. He did not want to sit and talk to Mrs. Chalmers.
“If you will excuse me…” he began as he led Mary up to her door.
“You are surely not thinking of leaving before paying your respects to Mama!” exclaimed Mary. “Besides, I want to read you my latest poem.”
“I shall not stay very long,” he sighed. “I must confess to feeling a trifle unwell.”
“Mama will give you some of her rhubarb pills,” said Mary, leading the way inside.
Lord Charles looked about him. How odd that this home, which had always seemed to him before a haven of peace and quiet, should now seem so bleak.
“Here is Lord Charles come to see you, Mama,” said Mary, untying her bonnet and shaking the raindrops from it. “I have told him of my secret work and he is avid to hear my latest composition.”
Mrs. Chalmers looked at Lord Charles. He looked avid to escape.
“I do not think his lordship is in the mood to listen to poetry,” said Mrs. Chalmers cautiously.
“Of course he is,” said Mary, going to a desk in the corner and taking out two sheets of paper. “Now, this poem was inspired by Fashion. I fear you gentlemen think we ladies care for nothing but dress. Miss Patterson, for example, shows too much interest in the fleeting vagaries of fashion. I have called my poem, ‘Drab Bonnets.’”
“My dear, I think Lord Charles would like something to drink,” pleaded Mrs. Chalmers.
“No, no. Poem first and drink afterward,” said Mary roguishly.
“This is awful! This is terrible!” thought Lord Charles. “I must have been mad. I don’t want to marry her.”
Mary delicately cleared her throat and began.
Drab Bonnets
They may cant of costumes, and of brilliant headdresses,
À la Grecque—à la Françoise—or what
else they will;
They may talk of tiaras that glitter on tresses
Enwreathed by the Graces, and braided with skill;
Yet to my partial glance, I confess the drab bonnet
Is the loveliest of any—and most when it bears
Not only the gloss of neatness upon it—
But, beneath—the expression Benevolence wears!
Then let Fashion exult in her vapid vagaries,
From her fascination my favorite is free;
Be Folly’s the headgear that momently varies,
But a Bonnet of drab is the sweetest to me.
Though stately the ostrich plume, gracefully throwing
Its feathery flashes of light on the eye;
Though tasty and trim the straw bonnet when glowing
With ribbons so glossy of various dye,
Yet still I must own though—
“Lord Charles, is anything the matter?”
He had his face completely covered by his handkerchief.
He removed his handkerchief. His face went through several strange contortions before he rose to his feet and gasped, “I must leave. Terribly ill.”
Mary looked after him in surprise and dismay as he fled the room.
Lord Charles found it very hard not to burst out into hysterical laughter. It was all so awful. His life stretched out in front of him, a life of endless evenings listening to Mary reading her poetry while Mrs. Chalmers complained about her rheumatism.
Miss Sinclair wandered slowly through Lord Charles’s house in Cavendish Square indulging in one of her favorite dreams. She liked to imagine she was mistress of the house. Her hand slid over the silk of the upholstery, her eyes admired the statuary and paintings. She pushed open doors, inspecting the bedrooms. As if drawn by a magnet, her feet moved toward Lord Charles’s bedroom. She gently pushed over the door and went inside. It was a very masculine room with a massive four-poster bed. The hangings were dark red. Firelight glinted on a beaten brass fender and a Turkish carpet covered the floor.
