by M C Beaton
“What’s left of it,” said his lordship dryly, watching the quizzing glass wrecking havoc with the hairdresser’s art. “Why don’t you use that thing properly? You’re supposed to look through it. But, by George, you’ve done every other curst thing. Why don’t you scratch your armpits?”
“You’re in love with her. That’s what’s making you so twitty,” said Peter, rising to meet the arrival of his man with his boots.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” snapped Lord Philip. “I may have a certain tendre for Amelia Godolphin. But I am certainly not in love with her.”
“I meant Constance,” said Peter. But by that time he had drifted off into the other room to have his boots pulled on and so his words went unheard by Philip.
Lord Philip was cursed with the tenacity of the typical English aristocrat—a single-minded pursuit of the desired goal. He wanted to bed Lady Amelia; he was vaguely surprised that Constance should annoy him so much. But nonetheless, he wanted Lady Amelia and meant to have her.
He accordingly crossed to the fireplace and took down several cards from the card stand and began to flick through them. His sister was holding a breakfast which had already begun, since the hour was now four in the afternoon and all fashionable breakfasts began at three. He cordially detested his sister, but he felt sure that Amelia would somehow manage to be there. He collected his hat and his cane and set out, forgetting his friend, Peter, with an absent mindedness worthy of that gentleman himself.
The breakfast was to be held at his sister’s villa in Kensington where she could erect marquees on the lawn for eating and dancing which she could not do in the pocket-sized garden which graced the back of her town house.
Kensington, with its pretty villas lining the Chiswick Road, was soon reached. It had all the charm of being not quite in town and not quite in the country. The mist had dispersed to be replaced with a gray drizzle. Water dropped from the great trees by the side of the road, and sooty sparrows squabbled and splashed in the puddles.
As soon as he arrived, Philip could sense that the occasion was not a success. Although the marquees were bedecked with flowers and draped with rose silk, the damp gray day seemed to have permeated everything. The reason was quickly discovered. His sister had turned her autocratic face from strong drink and had decided to serve only negus, ratafia and lemonade.
He found his sister, twisting the fringe of her shawl nervously in her fingers and fighting between her strong principles and the desire to make her breakfast a success. Philip looked at her worried face with some amusement as she surveyed her nearly silent guests.
“Give in,” he said gently, “or it will be all over London on the morrow that you have turned Methodist.”
“Oh, no,” cried Lady Eleanor, “they wouldn’t dare!”
“The trouble with this curst affair,” came the booming voice of one of the guests, the elderly Earl of Murr, “is it’s damn wet and dreary outside and curst damp, wet and dreary on the inside of m’stomach.”
“Evans!” bleated Lady Eleanor desperately. “Go and command the butler to bring out the best claret, champagne, and port. I don’t know what he can be thinking of.”
She waited anxiously until the footmen started circulating with the stronger drink. Soon a happy buzz of conversation filled the marquee and she sighed with relief.
“It was all Evans’s fault, of course,” said Lady Eleanor with restored complacency, “and so I shall tell everyone.”
“Nonsense!” said Philip, helping himself to wine. “Do that and I shall counter it with the truth. I don’t think you really appreciate Evans. I am looking for a secretary myself, you know.”
Lady Eleanor blenched. She was able to bully her meek husband on most matters. But Mr. Rider was devoted to his secretary, and she shuddered to think of his reaction should his main prop be taken from him. He might even refuse to fund her social engagements! “You shall not take Evans from me. Besides he wouldn’t go. Only last night Mr. Rider said he was going to pay him more money. Didn’t you, dear?” She nudged her husband in the ribs and he roused himself and said, “Yes, yes,” although he hadn’t heard a word.
And so a much gratified Evans was informed that further to their discussion of the night before, his salary would be raised immediately and with the cunning of the timid, Mr. Evans did not show any surprise that Lady Eleanor should be talking so long and so vehemently about a nonexistent discussion of his salary.
He had, in fact, nearly lost his job earlier that day despite the championship of Mr. Rider when Lady Eleanor had discovered that once again Lady Amelia’s name was featured on her guest list, and it took all Evans’s tact and nimble ability to lie to explain to her that the Countess Lieven had expressed a particular wish to see Lady Amelia at the function. For all her overbearing ways, Lady Eleanor was naive and it never crossed her mind for a moment that the quiet and trustworthy Mr. Evans could be lying, and that an arrogant social leader like the Countess Lieven who declared “It is not fashionable where I am not,” would ever consider showing an interest in Lady Amelia. Mr. Evans had, in fact, simply used the same guest list as the one for the musicale.
The guests were becoming increasingly noisy since they had been drinking wine steadily, in the way a hard-drinking society will if it has been deprived of its favorite beverage for over an hour.
Lord Philip raised his quizzing glass and stared across the tent at Amelia who demurely lowered her eyes. She was wearing a morning dress of scarlet taffeta cut low enough to show the world that she was possessed of an excellent pair of shoulders. Then to his irritation, he found his eyes drawn to the quiet companion by Lady Amelia’s side. What a quiz of a dress! It was a brown silk and he could swear it was actually patched neatly on one of the sleeves. Constance’s face was white, almost translucent, like alabaster, and her large eyes briefly held such an expression of pain and bewilderment that Lord Philip dropped his own eyes and fortified himself from the bottle at his elbow, feeling strangely uneasy.
He was unaware that Mrs. Besant had been watching him like a hawk.
“Things are beginning to happen,” thought that malicious widow gleefully. She turned her avid gaze on Constance who was now toying with her food.
That dress was one of the girl’s old ones, thought Mrs. Besant happily. But was she cold? She kept pulling her shawl up round her bare shoulders in an oddly protective way.
The sound of fiddles came from the other marquee across the lawn as Neil Gow and his famous musicians, hired specially for the day, began to tune up. One by one the guests began to rise to their feet. Lady Amelia got up and said something to Constance in a sharp voice. The girl dutifully rose and left the tent one pace behind her mistress, but not before Mrs. Besant’s eagle eyes had caught the veiled look of anger mixed with fear that Constance had cast on Amelia, or the way the girl moved her shoulders stiffly as if she were in pain.
Mrs. Besant hurried after them. A pale, watery sunlight was filtering through a gray veil of cloud and the day had turned warm and humid. Roses bloomed in every corner of the garden, glittering with rain, their heavy heads hanging down under the weight of the rainwater. As Mrs. Besant hurried up behind her, a thorn caught in Constance’s shawl and pulled it down, away from her back and neck.
And Mrs. Besant drew in her breath with a sharp hiss of satisfaction. A long, savage red weal was cut across the girl’s white shoulders. Constance quickly untangled her shawl and huddled it around her shoulders.
Mrs. Besant stopped her pursuit and turned instead to go in search of Lord Philip.
Lord Philip was often considered too proud and toplofty by many of society but Mrs. Besant, watching the charming smile that lit up his lordship’s rather austere features as he bent his black head to listen to something that grubby little secretary was saying, thought that, on the contrary, there were times when Lord Philip Cautry was too democratic.
Ignoring the secretary completely, she rudely broke into their conversation with, “Cautry! A word in your ear.�
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“I am talking to Mr. Evans, Mrs. Besant,” said Lord Philip in arctic tones, “or perhaps you hadn’t noticed.”
Mrs. Besant gave the secretary a smile. Mr. Evans reflected that although he had been told the human mouth usually holds thirty-two teeth, God had seen fit to give Mrs. Besant fifty. They seemed to snap at him awfully as if they had a separate life of their own, and with an incoherent mumble he took his leave.
“What is it?” said Lord Philip, staring down at Mrs. Besant with distaste. She was only a vicar’s daughter after all, and it was time someone put her in her place.
But her opening word’s caught his full attention.
“I am really surprised to see a fine and brave gentleman like yourself stand by while Miss Constance Lamberton—who is, after all, the daughter of an old friend of yours—is whipped.”
“Come now,” snapped Philip, angry at the sudden feeling of foreboding that had assailed him. “You have been reading too many gothic novels, Mrs. Besant.” But he did not walk away.
“Then ask her,” breathed Mrs. Besant, moving close to him and speaking in a murmur, “ask her where she got that cruel whiplash on her back!” She smiled, giving him the full benefit of her array of yellow teeth, gave a jerky little nod of her head, and then began to speak in a high voice about something completely different as she saw a little knot of guests approaching.
Lord Philip walked quickly in the direction that Amelia and Constance had taken. He was tired of all this gossip, these rumors. He suddenly remembered holding Constance in his arms, and looking down on the intriguing vista of white and flawless back revealed by her low evening gown.
The dance had not yet begun and Amelia and Constance were seated at a small table where more refreshments were being served. Amelia gave him a dazzling smile and waved him over to join them. A stray sunbeam shining through a small tear in the canvas lit up the pure, pale, white gold of her hair and Philip caught his breath. No one so beautiful could be so guilty of such cruelties.
Amelia launched into the latest on-dit and Lord Philip listened appreciatively since the story concerned a couple he did not like in the least. When Amelia had finished, Lord Philip turned his attention to Constance.
“Are you cold, Miss Lamberton?” he asked, looking at Constance who sat with a Norfolk shawl huddled around her shoulders. Amelia had forgotten the whiplash, and only wanted Lord Philip to see what a drab Constance looked in that frumpy gown.
Before Constance could reply, Amelia said, “Yes, Constance dear. It is so hot in here, but the way you are huddled up one would think we were at the North Pole.” And before Constance could stop her, Amelia had leaned forward and twitched the shawl from her shoulders and it fell to the ground. Constance bent quickly to retrieve it, and Lord Philip saw the ugly weal that marred the white skin of her back.
“Miss Lamberton,” he said in a flat, emotionless voice. “That is a very ugly scar on your back. One would think someone had been taking a whip to you.”
Amelia gave a shrill laugh, “It is a birth mark, isn’t it, Constance dear?”
Constance looked straight at Amelia, her large, hazel eyes totally expressionless.
“No,” she said, baldly.
“Then how came you by it?” persisted Lord Philip.
Amelia became aware of her friend, Mrs. Besant, standing behind the chair listening avidly, and her pale blue eyes flashed a warning at Constance.
Constance rose gracefully to her feet. “I am feeling a trifle unwell,” she said in a thin voice. “If you will excuse me, Lady Amelia. I must go into the house.”
“By all means, Coz,” trilled Amelia, all mock solicitation. “Lord Philip will chaperone me until your return.”
“Perhaps it would be better if I escorted Miss Lamberton home,” said Lord Philip, his green eyes fastened on Constance’s pale face.
“Come, now!” laughed Amelia, laying a possessive hand on his arm. “Such a fuss over a young girl’s megrims. You gentlemen of the world must be aware that us ladies are plagued with the vapors at a certain time of the month.”
Constance blushed scarlet and fled. Lord Philip wondered for one awful moment if he, too, were blushing. Amelia couldn’t possibly have meant… wouldn’t have dared… no woman ever.…
He was grateful for the presence of Mrs. Besant, who plumped herself down in Constance’s chair and leaned her knobby elbows on the table.
But Lord Philip’s embarrassment was not over, for Mrs. Besant was hell-bent on mischief.
“Tell me, dearest,” said Mrs. Besant, leaning towards Amelia and flashing a look at Philip to make sure he was listening, “Do, but do, do tell how little Constance got that simply terrible mark on her back. It looks just as if it had been made by someone striking her with a whip.…”
Constance walked quickly into the Riders’ large sprawling villa and began to breathe more easily as the noise of the party receded behind her. She simply wanted to be alone to sort out her anguished and very muddled thoughts. The cool quiet rooms seemed deserted, since both servants and masters were with the guests in the garden.
She pushed open a door at random and found herself in a large music room. Pale sunlight filtering through the trees outside the long windows dappled the polished oak floor. There was very little furniture apart from a large gilt harp, a prettily painted spinet, a few comb-and-splat Windsor chairs, and a Pembroke table holding a luster bowl full of red and white roses.
Constance sat down on one of the chairs, bent her head and tried to marshal her thoughts. Despite Amelia’s vicious attack on her, Constance felt disloyal to her mistress for harboring such angry thoughts about her. For although Constance came from an ancient and respected English family, Amelia topped her in rank, and Constance had always been taught to respect her betters—betters, of course, meaning anyone higher up on the social scale. Then there was that stern matter of duty. She was employed by Amelia, therefore it was her duty to obey Amelia.
And under all these noble thoughts ran the fear of being turned out into the London streets. Constance had lived a grim but isolated life with her aunt, and had therefore been spared many of the horrible sights of the day.
In the less favored areas of London, however, she expected to see the grim and scab-faced rabble with their wild eyes and filthy clothes. But it was the behavior of her peers that shocked her. The cruelty of the young bucks and bloods who roamed the streets and squares of the West End, harassing the old and crippled and weak. She had once walked from the house escorted by Eliot, the lady’s maid, to do some shopping in Bond Street and had been appalled at the behavior of an extremely smart and elegant group of young men. As soon as Constance and the maid had come abreast of them, they had proceeded to make water against the railings of the square, sniggering and loudly calling her attention to their behavior.
The darker pits of sexual behavior which Amelia had tried to din into her unwilling ears had left her surprisingly untouched. There is, after all, no greater protection than a truly virginal mind.
She found her thoughts returning—as they did with increasing frequency these days—to Lord Philip. More and more had she begun to think him a fitting mate for her mistress, but more because Lord Philip seemed almost as wrapped up in the rank and honor of his name as Amelia was in her beauty. And yet… he had seemed so kind that splendid night he had held her in his arms. Just what a brother might do, thought Constance, severely pushing down more pleasurable feelings.
Was it so bad to be whipped by one’s mistress? her busy brain rattled on. Servants were whipped, of course, and younger brothers and sisters. She was sure it was odd for a lady to take the whip to her companion, but then, she knew so little of the world. There was only one salvation for a girl like herself, she concluded sadly, and that was marriage. I would marry the first man who asked me, she thought. A home of my own and children of my own would make up for an absence of love.
Constance was so immersed in her thoughts that she had not heard the sound of someo
ne entering the hall outside and approaching the door of the music room. She jerked her head up only as a strangely familiar voice said urgently, “In here!”
Constance saw the doorknob beginning to turn and ran for the open windows. She stood on a small terrace outside, looking for a way down. But the terrace ran round the corner of the house and presumably there would be steps there. She was reluctant to walk past the window and expose herself in case the person in the room behind turned out to be the acid Mrs. Besant, the haughty Lady Eleanor or even Amelia herself. She decided to stay quietly on the terrace, between the windows, until whoever it was should leave.
The conversation in the room behind her was in French and, although Constance recognized one of the speakers as the Comte Duval, she could not make out a word. Unlike many of her contemporaries, she did not know one word of French. She therefore had a comfortable feeling that she was not eavesdropping but amused herself by trying to recognize some of the words that sounded familiar. She heard the name, “Fanny Braintree” and then “Bonaparte,” then “l’Empereur”—“that must be Emperor,” thought Constance—then the word “espion” repeated several times and then the word “trahison.” The murmur of voices went on and Constance began to become anxious. Surely Lady Amelia would be looking for her by this time!
She decided she could not wait any longer. She ran nimbly to the end of the terrace, her little leather slippers making no sound, fled round the corner of the terrace and saw, with relief, a double flight of steps leading down into the garden.
But before she could reach them, the thorns of a rose bush growing in an urn on the terrace caught at the weak, worn leather strap of her fan and tore it from her wrist. She hesitated, wondering whether to wait and extricate her fan from the bush, but she heard the rapid, pursuing sound of footsteps coming from the direction of the music room, and fled into the garden.
