by Joan Smith
“Oh, you are planning to serve turbot and mutton again, are you?” was her comment when Rosalind outlined the main features of the menu. “I hope Lord Sylvester does not find it hopelessly rustic. I had thought you might be serving lobster and perhaps a ragout to impress him. Or oysters. Oysters would be a pleasant change.”
“Cook is making her mulligatawny soup,” Rosalind said apologetically. Annabelle had experience of London cuisine and was therefore listened to with interest.
“Pity there would not be time to make a turtle soup. It is all the crack in London, but one must make arrangements for the turtle days in advance. Well, so long as you are not serving apple tart and cheese for dessert.”
Here, at least, Rosalind felt she was on firm ground. “No indeed. Cook is making a Chantilly, and the gardener has some melons in the conservatory that he tells me are ripe enough to serve.”
“That is a good start,” Annabelle allowed. “Is there time to prepare an ice?”
“I fear not. It is only a simple dinner party, Annabelle. You know it takes an age to make ices.”
“I doubt Lord Sylvester is accustomed to simple meals. We shall call it potluck. That is the excuse for country fare in London. Let me make up a centerpiece for the table. I am a bit of a dab at that.”
Rosalind heaved a sigh of relief as she sent her troublesome helper off to the garden, armed with shears and a cutting basket. The elaborate centerpiece that was eventually placed in the center of the table hardly suggested a potluck dinner. It was quite two feet high and half again as wide. It would be impossible for the diners to see the company seated on the other side of the table. Yet it was certainly a striking arrangement, almost a miniature garden, with lilies and ferns and roses and foxglove and a bit of everything else in the garden.
“Monsieur Gervase, in London, gives lessons to ladies in flower arranging,” Annabelle explained, after she had accepted praise for her handiwork. “He particularly liked my originality.”
“It’s lovely, Annabelle.”
“And I have made up corsages for you and me, Roz. Yours is in your room. I used white roses, as I wasn’t sure what gown you planned to wear. You wore your pink one last night, so I assumed it would be the green you always wore last spring.”
Rosalind planned to wear the pink watered silk again, but she thanked Annabelle for the corsage.
Annabelle looked around the dining room and said, “When I take over as mistress of Apple Hill, the first thing I shall do is have this room done over. I don’t know how you can stand such a gloomy place, Roz. I always feel I am eating in a pit when I take dinner here. I shall throw a bow window out, just there on the east wall, to let in the light and give a view of the gardens. When I have these dark varnished walls painted in some light color, the room will be quite nice, don’t you think?”
Rosalind did not think Dick would want the wall torn apart with a bow window, but she was determined to be agreeable. “The room is certainly dark,” she said. “Let us put a brace of candles on either end of the sideboard for tonight to brighten it up.”
By the time the ladies went abovestairs to dress for dinner, Rosalind had a nagging headache. It was not improved to see the corsage Annabelle had left for her. It was not so much a corsage as a bouquet of roses, liberally backed by asparagus fern. When she pinned it on her gown, the weight of it pulled the material out of shape. She removed half a dozen rosebuds and pinned the corsage back in place.
Sukey came to her room before she went downstairs. “Dick says I can come down and watch the dancing for a little while,” she said.
This was nothing new. Sukey had been in the habit of coming down to watch the dancing for a year now without offending provincial notions of propriety. But Rosalind felt that Sylvester would dislike it, and after spending an afternoon with Annabelle, she was more determined than ever to ingratiate him.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Sukey,” she said. “In London, children don’t go to grown-up parties. Lord Sylvester will think it uncivilized.”
“I hate Lord Sylvester.”
“You don’t hate him. You shouldn’t say such things.”
“Yes, I do. He kicked Snow Drop. And he’s silly. Silly Sylvester. He talks too much. I want to go watch you dance. Dick said I could.”
“Well, perhaps just one dance—from the doorway. Don’t be chasing about the room.”
“I won’t. Thanks, Roz.” She hugged Rosalind, doing some damage to the corsage in the process. “I’ll tell Dick you said I could come.”
“Minx! You conned me!”
“Did not! Dick said I could go if you said it’s all right. I’ll tell him.” She danced out of the room, golden curls bouncing.
Roz just shook her head. At least Sukey wouldn’t be a problem in London. Dick was her legal guardian, and she would remain at Apple Hill. But she’d miss Sukey. Of course, she would visit home often. Apple Hill wasn’t that far from London. And Dick would bring Sukey to visit her, too. When Sukey was older, she could make longer visits.
A memory of Harry and Sukey, walking hand in hand down the garden path in the sunlight, flitted through her mind, bringing a sad smile to her lips. She would miss Harry, too. He would be at the Abbey for most of the year.
She shook the wisps of regret away and went belowstairs to greet the guests. They were all old friends and neighbors. Annabelle’s parents were there, along with the vicar and his wife and couples from nearby estates. Rosalind had to endure a deal of joking compliments on her first appearance in print. Her friends treated it with embarrassment, as if she had taken a tumble from her mount, or been caught tying her garter in public.
Sylvester, on the other hand, was shown great respect. A lord was novelty enough, but a lord who wrote poetry and edited a magazine and wore an orange jacket (Sylvester called it bronze) was unique. Lord Sylvester, bent on acquiring subscriptions for Camena, was at his most charming. There wasn’t a soul who escaped without promising a subscription, even Mrs. Hardy, the late vicar’s widow, who prided herself on never reading anything except the Bible.
The two-foot centerpiece did not prevent Lord Sylvester from talking to the table at large. His fluting voice carried above and around the mini-garden of roses, lilies, and ferns. It would be difficult to say which of his dinner companions, Lady Amanda or Miss Fortescue, was more enthralled. They both hung on his every word.
Annabelle was eager to learn more about Sylvester’s family. To this end, she sat with Lady Amanda while the gentlemen took their port.
Never one to beat about the bush, she asked bluntly, “What can you tell me about Lord Sylvester’s family, Lady Amanda?”
“I have known the Dunstons forever. Old Dunston, the marquess, owns half of East Sussex. Of course, his elder son, Moffat, will inherit the title and Astonby Hall, but I should think Sylvester will come into something very worthwhile. He will be a good catch for some wide-awake lady. There are no girls in the family, you must know. Sylvester, as the second son, should get his mama’s dot. Twenty-five thousand, I believe it was. The estate in Surrey might very well go to him as well, from his uncle Cyrus. Cyrus Staunton was minister of war for the Tories a few decades ago. He picked up a dozen sinecures at court.”
Annabelle didn’t know what a sinecure was, but as they grew at court, she felt they must be something good. “Lord Sylvester will live in London year-round, I should think,” she said.
“You couldn’t drive him out with a team of horses. His head is full of nothing but causing a stir with his poetry and magazine. Byron, the scoundrel, has a good deal to account for. I expect Sylvester will grow out of it, but he will never be satisfied to rusticate. He is a city creature. He lives in the family’s London house. Dunston is too old to make the trip for the Season. Even Moffat seldom takes a Season, now that he is shackled.”
A city creature. Annabelle was interested to learn there was a name for the cause of her particular malaise. She, too, was a city creature. She tried to like living in the count
ry, but there was no denying she felt shortchanged by having to limit herself to country assemblies and such dull do’s as she had attended last night and tonight. Her own parties were much livelier, but it took more than one lady to create the sort of life she wanted.
She had tried to interest Dick in hiring a house in London for a Season after they were married, but he just said she would likely be enceinte by then, and why would she want to be rattling about London when she was in such an ungainly condition. Lord Sylvester, on the other hand, lived in a noble London mansion all year round, on close terms with the tip of the ton. A city creature. The phrase held the allure of sin for her.
She was the first one out the door when Dick announced that the dancing was about to begin. Only Sukey was there before her, waiting patiently on a bentwood chair against the wall. Annabelle had to have the first set with Dick, but as soon as it was over, she went to speak to Rosalind, who had been dancing with Sylvester.
“Should Sukey not be in her bed by now?” she said.
“Indeed she should. She likes to see the show—all the ladies in their finery.”
She went to dispatch Sukey, who was sleepy enough that she went without an argument.
When the next set began, Sylvester, perforce, stood up with Annabelle. Their first conversation was to agree that it was foolishly lax to allow a child to attend an adults’ party. That settled, Annabelle expressed a keen interest in poetry, and asked why there were none of his poems in the most recent issue of Camena.
“I am ashamed to say I have never read your work, milord, for I am sure you must be famous. Croydon is so backward. I had to wait two weeks to get Sir Walter Scott’s Guy Mannering. I do miss the mental stimulation of London.”
“There is nowhere like it. As Dr. Johnson said, ‘When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life.’ Interesting you should ask why there is none of my work in the magazine, Miss Fortescue. There is nothing I like better than writing poetry, but the fact is, since I have become the editor and publisher of my magazine, I find my time pretty well filled up with the duties of running it. I have to read the submissions, you see, and decide which offerings merit publication.”
“Could you not hire someone to sort out the wheat from the chaff for your final approval, and leave you free to write your marvelous poetry?”
“Now we come to the financing. I should like to hire an assistant editor eventually, but I have to keep my staff to a minimum for the present. I don’t come into my inheritance for a few years. It is foolishly tied up until I am twenty-five. I am so weary of cadging from friends and relatives that I am sometimes tempted to marry a fortune.” This was accompanied by a laugh to show he joked.
“I’m sure you would not have any trouble, milord,” she said. “Someone of your intellectual attainments, to say nothing of your title and—” She blushed demurely and said daringly, “And your beauty.”
He laughed again, but there was a different note to his voice. “Are you from a large family, Miss Fortescue?” he asked a moment later.
“No, I am the only child,” she said. “If Papa had a large family to provide for, I expect he would still be in London. When a man has accumulated a good fortune and has only one to provide for, he may retire and do as he pleases—even if it does not please his daughter,” the city creature added with a moue.
She saw the glint of interest in his eyes and felt she had said enough for the moment. She hoped to have another conversation with Lord Sylvester before he left, but as things turned out, Sylvester left very soon.
Lady Amanda reminded him that he was to have a look at the John Donne fragment, and as he was leaving the next day, it seemed he must go that night. He apologized profusely to Dick, then went in search of Rosalind.
“This would be such a coup for Camena that I mustn’t hurt her feelings by refusing to go,” he explained. “If she takes a huff, she might very well send the Donne fragment to Blackwood’s or the Edinburgh Review in spite.”
“Yes, of course you must go,” Rosalind agreed. “If you get away early, you might come back for another dance. It is only ten-thirty. I expect the party will go on until one.”
“That was my intention,” he said with a conspiratorial smile. “You and I have not had a moment alone to get to really know one another. I feel we have more than poetry in common?” When she seemed pleased at this lure, he seized her fingers and squeezed them tightly. “I give you fair warning, Miss Lovelace, I want a deal more than words on paper from you.”
She blushed like a peony and gave a breathless little laugh. Sylvester, satisfied that she was amenable to seduction, went to fetch Lady Amanda’s mantle.
As Harwell watched their departure from across the room, he chewed back a smile and went to join Rosalind.
“Well, well,” he said. “Now you see what you will be up against in London. The town is rife with ladies of Lady Amanda’s sort. Sure you can hack it?”
“Quite sure,” she replied, with a maddening smile.
Chapter Eight
They spoke in the hallway just outside the ballroom door.
“Lord Sylvester always puts the good of his magazine first, Harry,” Rosalind said, with a proprietary air. “Quite rightly, too.”
“I should be very much surprised if Amanda has any scribbles of John Donne’s in her library,” Harwell replied. “It was an excuse to snatch Sylvester out from under your nose. You may accept his departure with equanimity, but your lady guests will be heartbroken.”
She gave him a tolerant smile. “He does seem to be universally pleasing, does he not? To everyone but you, I mean.”
“It pleases me that he has spared me a round with Amanda. And by the by, your beau is especially pleasing to Miss Fortescue, in case you are blind and failed to notice the chit throwing herself at him.”
As they spoke, Snow Drop came flying down the staircase with Sukey in hot pursuit.
“You’re supposed to be in bed!” Rosalind scolded. “And you haven’t even undressed yet.”
“I had to go to the kitchen first to get some cake from Cook,” the child replied, as if to an idiot. “I was just going to bed. I told that stupid Snow Drop to wait on my pillow, but she fell off.”
Snow Drop, who considered the whole thing a game, looked over her shoulder at her pursuer, then darted into the ballroom. Sukey took off after her. Rosalind didn’t see the resulting confusion, but she heard it. Some lady—it sounded like Mrs. Warbuck—let out a frightened howl. There was a rather hard bump as a body hit the floor, then a moment’s silence as the music wavered to a halt, followed by a buzz of voices and some laughter.
“Thank God Lord Sylvester has left!” Rosalind said, and hastened to the ballroom. Harwell gave a bah of disgust at her concern and went after her.
Mrs. Warbuck, a good-natured lady, had recovered both her feet and her humor by the time Rosalind arrived. She was brushing off her skirt and straightening her turban.
‘I’m so sorry. Are you hurt?” Rosalind asked.
“I’m fine. ‘Twas only Sukey chasing her kitten. I didn’t know what hit me at first,” she said, laughing.
“I’ll give her a good scold and put her straight to bed. This is really the outside of enough.”
The miscreant was led forward by Dick, with Snow Drop tucked in her arms. Dick was annoyed, but Annabelle, who was with him, was livid.
“This has gone too far. The child is incorrigible!” she exclaimed. “Whoever heard of a child attending a rout party? You’ve got to do something with her, Dick. If you don’t, I shall. I won’t permit this sort of rowdiness at Apple Hill.”
“It’s not your house!” Sukey said.
“It soon will be!” Annabelle shot back. Her cabbage eyes narrowed into angry slits.
“I’ll take her upstairs,” Rosalind said, and took Sukey by the arm to lead her off. She gave her sister a good scold and warned her not to come downstairs again that night.
“I wish Dick wouldn’t marry her,” Sukey said, pulling he
r nightgown over her head. “I’m glad you’ll be here to take care of me when he does. Don’t stay too long in London. Come back before Dick marries her. Promise me, Roz.” She directed a commanding blue gaze at her sister and hopped into bed.
“Go to sleep,” Rosalind said, tucking in the blanket, but she felt like a traitor when she left the room.
This business tonight wasn’t really Annabelle’s fault. Sukey was getting out of hand. She needed firm guidance. Dick wouldn’t let Annabelle abuse Sukey. There was no physical danger, but Sukey would be deuced unhappy. Rosalind determined to find a good, kindhearted governess for her before she left for London. It was really the governess who would raise Sukey.
Rosalind still felt troubled when she returned belowstairs. Harwell was waiting for her in the hall.
“I expect this will be dumped in my dish for giving her the kitten,” he said.
“No, it’s my fault. Sukey is getting too forward for her own good lately.”
“It’s not the first time she’s attended one of your parties.”
“It’s the first time she sent one of my guests flying across the room. It really was too bad of her.”
Harwell just batted his hand. “Mrs. Warbuck took it in good spirit. I shouldn’t worry about it.”
“It’s Sukey I’m worried about. I fear she and Annabelle will never rub along after I’m gone.”
“Well, at least you didn’t say Lord Sylvester wouldn’t like it.”
“No more he would,” she said, with a tsk. “It was a good thing Amanda stole him away after all, or he would know how shabbily we go on here at Apple Hill.”
“Speaking of shabby, I think he and Amanda might have waited another hour before leaving.”
“Oh, he is returning,” she said. “He is just going to pick up the famous fragment.”
“You must root through your library and see if you have anything similar to lure him. A few lines from Spencer, a Shakespearean play scribbled on the back of a menu.”
“He has already inquired whether we are related to the famous Richard Lovelace who wrote about Althea in Prison, you know. Or probably you don’t know.”
