The Nomad Harp

by Elizabeth Rotter Matthews

  “Too, too thoughtless of him,” Phoebe mocked. “I suppose he imagined that you would be delighted by his elevation, pleased that he would not be forever away on dangerous missions. Poor, deluded man!"

  Glenna choked back a gurgle of laughter. “Pray don't pinch at me, love. It is all in the past now, and settled. Actually he told me the blockade was more dull than dangerous. Captain Andrews said one is as safe in a ship as in a carriage."

  “Pooh. That was just because you were nervous when first we boarded. I cannot believe he does not encounter hazards every day. It must be so alarming to be at the mercy of the elements."

  “Captain Andrews is a very fine sailor, Phoebe. Pontley said so, and we have ourselves witnessed his skill. I should not worry about him if I were you, love,” she suggested gently.

  “No, of course not,” Phoebe responded stoutly. “I think I shall go and start my packing."

  Chapter 13

  The Viscounts Pontley owned a rather small townhouse in London, which it had been the habit in recent years to let out during the season, or for that matter, for whatever part of the year they were able. Pontley's cousin William had frequently been in town but preferred lodgings to the house, as they were more convenient. The most recent occupant of the place had decamped in November and the dowager had suggested, with her usual asperity, that Pontley send an army of servants before them to prepare it. In spite of the fact that the place had been scrubbed, rubbed and brushed, the dowager found fault when they arrived.

  “Have the coal cellars been filled? The beds aired? The linen mended? There will be vermin; always are in London. You would think we had let the place to nobodies. I can smell cheroot smoke, and I specifically instructed that there was to be no smoking in the house.” She continued with a long list of grievances as she followed the housekeeper up to the room which had been prepared for her. “Come along, Jennifer."

  “Yes, aunt. I shall be right with you,” her niece murmured demurely. But the moment the old woman's back was turned she stuck out her tongue and grimaced. “It is not a very large place, Philip. I had hoped it would be more elegant. Never mind; I shall try my hand at designing liveries for the servants. Nothing is more impressive than an elegantly liveried footman or page."

  “No, really? I had no idea it was so important.” He regarded her quizzically, but she refused to rise to the bait.

  “You haven't the least notion how a luxurious household should be run, my dear Philip."

  “Too true, and I haven't a great desire to learn if it is to lead me to Dun territory."

  “I wish you would not forever fuss about spending money. I hate a pinch-penny."

  He frowned momentarily, but answered lightly, “I have no objection to spending what is reasonable, and what I have. You must tell me what is needed, my dear."

  “Oh, I shall.” She nodded absently to him and belatedly followed her aunt up the staircase.

  Jennifer had marked several gowns in the Ladies’ Monthly Museum and sent them to her sister's dressmaker in London the previous week, with copious instructions on the colors and fabrics she desired, and her measurements. Pontley was not aware of this, but he was soon enlightened. The day after their arrival he drove the ladies to the dressmaker's establishment and, having no desire to enter the premises, wandered about the cobbled streets until they emerged.

  The dowager's face was enough to warn him there was trouble brewing; the staggering load of bundles the footman deposited in the carriage certainly startled him. No word was exchanged between the two ladies during the drive home, and the dowager's only comment on entering was, “She is your prospective bride, Pontley. I wash my hands of her."

  Such an unpropitious statement led him to take Jennifer into the small parlor where they would not be interrupted. “You seem to have distressed my aunt, Jennifer. Would you enlighten me?"

  “She's a stuffy prude, Philip. I have done no more than purchase the most becoming gowns, and all she can do is moan about young ladies wearing white or the softest of pastels, and that it is not decent to wear such low-cut gowns, and that I had no right to have Madame send you the bill without asking you first. White looks totally insipid on me, Philip, as does any pastel, with my fair coloring. And although I have not had a season as yet, I am engaged to be married and there can be no objection to my dressing as I please. Pay no heed to her. You will be positively enchanted with the gowns I have bought."

  “And I am to pay for.” He regarded her with woeful amusement. “I have no objection to doing so, Jennifer, but Aunt Gertrude is right that you should have asked me."

  “Am I to ask you for everything, Philip? Shall I need your signature to go shopping?"

  “We are not yet married. You will have an allowance, and I will expect you to live within it. If that should prove a problem we will make other arrangements."

  Her brow grew stormy. “So you intend to keep me on leading strings, do you? With some niggardly allowance which will hardly cover a pair of dancing slippers or an ivory fan? I have watched your nip-cheese ways, Philip, and you can be sure that I have no intention of imitating you. My father will see that you grant me a sufficient allowance."

  “No doubt,” he said dryly, remembering the procession he had encountered near Taunton. “I have no intention of being ungenerous, Jennifer, but the estates are not yet in order and I have to be realistic. Will you change into one of your new gowns for me? I should like to see you."

  Immediately the cloud lifted from her brow, and she danced over to the door. “It won't take me but a moment. Oh, you will be delighted. Madame said there was never anyone who graced her designs so well.” And she was gone.

  Pontley tapped impatient fingers on the pianoforte and wished he had some idea of the rules which governed ladies’ fashions. How was he to know if the dresses were improper? But when she appeared, he knew. The gown was not seductively low, it was indecent. Of some sort of clinging blue fabric, it hugged her form like the folds of the drapery on a statue. Her ordinarily boyish figure had somehow been rearranged so that there were indeed curves, and there was very little of her breasts left unexposed. He was surprised that she could keep even this little covered, so precarious appeared the design, and he stood speechless before her.

  “Is it not stunning? I shall wear it to the theatre tonight and promptly be declared an original. Oh, Philip, I have never been so happy. London will be at my feet, just you wait and see, and you will be so proud of me."

  Convinced that more likely he would be a laughingstock, nonetheless he refrained from saying so. It was this perpetual strain of trying to find some middle ground between ruining her simple pleasure, and forcing her to act as she ought, which was wearing him down. In all likelihood she would be taken for a ladybird; he had seen more than one similarly dressed.

  He cleared his throat. “Very becoming, my dear. The blue perfectly matches your eyes.” This once he would let her have her treat, and only hoped that he would not regret it. It seemed doubtful to him that her aunt would be willing to accompany them. “You should change back now so that you will not get it soiled before this evening."

  Impulsively she lifted his hand and kissed it. “You cannot know how happy you have made me. I was afraid that you might be as stuffy as my aunt,” she admitted engagingly, “but you are famous.” Before he could reply she had flitted, spritelike, from the room.

  With a shrug of despair he went to seek an interview with the dowager. She was as adamant as he had expected. “I will not accompany you with her dressed like some ... baggage. Are you so great a fool as to think what she is wearing acceptable? Have you never been to town before, Pontley?"

  “Not often, and I am quite as distressed as you are, my dear aunt, but I do not intend to burst her bubble. Since we became engaged I have done little else, and tonight she shall have her glory. Tomorrow ... well, I shall see about tomorrow."

  “I won't come with you."

  Pontley fixed her with a hard, determined stare. “You wil
l accompany us, and do so with a good grace, ma'am."

  The dowager shifted her eyes from his and mumbled, “No, I am not well."

  His voice was low but insistent. “I have tolerated your snipes and slurs for as long as I intend to, aunt. When you were the only thorn in my flesh I was willing enough to put up with your abuse, for it means nothing to me. I have a far larger problem now, which tries me sorely, and she is your niece. If you wish to see a scandal in your family, of course I cannot convince you to come. But I intend to take Jennifer to the theatre tonight with or without you. If you attend, we will survive the talk; if you do not, we won't. The choice is yours."

  “There needn't be any talk at all,” she said querulously, “if you would but insist that she wear something decent."

  “She shall wear her blue gown. Do you come with us?"

  “Yes"

  Pontley nodded and left her. She was shaken more by the way he had taken command than by the necessity to accompany her niece in that despicable gown. Her last shreds of self-delusion were torn from her; Pontley would not now, or ever, allow her to hold any power at Lockwood or in the family. For all that she despised him, she knew he was twice the man either of her sons had been.

  The excursion to the theatre was no less cataclysmic than any of its participants had expected. The Young Roscius performed to an audience all agog with wonder. Not all of their wonder, however, was reserved for him. Not an eyeglass in the place seemed able to refrain from drifting toward the box where Jennifer sat between the viscount and the dowager. The old woman sat stiffly and made no attempt to converse with her companions. At first Jennifer was delighted to be there and flattered by the attention she drew. Pontley sat at his ease and answered those of her steady stream of questions which he was able.

  During the intermissions there were few visitors to their box, since the dowager turned a blind eye to any acquaintance who chanced to be in the audience and, as far as he knew, Pontley did not have any. A few young men who could claim some familiarity with the old woman braved her icy stare to enjoy proximity to Jennifer, but they were not encouraged to linger. Soon Jennifer's exhilaration turned to disappointment and she begged to walk in the corridor so that she might mix with the ton and perhaps recognize some friend of her sister's. Pontley agreed, and placed her hand on his arm to lead her from the box. There was a groan from the dowager, but she was not heeded.

  The crowd which milled about unconsciously made a passage for Pontley and his fiancée. Jennifer became more and more conscious of the disapproving stares she raised from the women, and the lecherous ones of the men. Her face drained of color except for two bright spots on her cheeks. When she could bear it no longer, she whispered, “Let us return to the box."

  “Certainly, my dear. What do you think of the boy actor? Are you as impressed with him as the rest of town?"

  But Jennifer was unable to reply, and merely trembled against his arm. His attention was caught by a former schoolmate who stopped to speak with him. Unable to face the man's obvious interest, Jennifer pulled away from Pontley and fled down the corridor. Although he excused himself to follow as quickly as he could, those in the crowd were pressing back to their seats now and it took him a few minutes to catch up with her. When he did so he found her hiding behind a column, her diminutive body shaken by sobs. He put his arms about her comfortingly and murmured reassurance.

  She lifted a horrified face to his and tried to speak but was unable.

  “Let me get your aunt,” he suggested.

  “No. No, please,” she sobbed. After a moment she struggled once again to tell him what had happened. “A man ... grabbed me ... as I was running. And he...touched me."

  “Poor child. Try not to think on it, Jennifer. He was probably drunk."

  “I scratched at his face, and there was blood, and people saw me."

  “You are all right now, my dear. I am here to take care of you. Would you like to go home now?"

  “Yes, please,” she whispered.

  “Very well. Come to the door of the box and we will get your aunt."

  The dowager made no comment on being informed that her niece wished to leave, nor did she hesitate. A cursory glance would have informed her that Jennifer was suffering, but the old woman did not make any sign that she was aware of this. The girl leaned against Pontley's shoulder in the carriage, but shed no more tears. In the light of the hall she blinked uncertainly and watched the dowager's rigid back recede up the stairs.

  “Come into the parlor for a moment, Jennifer, and I will give you a sip of brandy to steady your nerves.”

  She followed him obediently and nestled into a corner of the sofa where she attempted to arrange a wisp of handkerchief over her bosom. Pontley made no comment and refrained from allowing his eyes to stray to the pathetic symbol of modesty. Silently she accepted the glass he offered her and took a few tentative sips before rising. “I should like to go to bed now, sir."

  “A maid will be waiting up for you, my dear, so do not hesitate to ask for anything you need.” He kissed her brow before she turned and left him.

  This subdued, chastened Jennifer he had not seen before and it encouraged him (for the span of twelve hours) to believe that there might be some hope for her. It had been a hard lesson and an ugly one, but she had seemed to gain from the experience. He was rudely disillusioned the next morning.

  By now he was familiar with the signs of her tantrums. Whenever there was a commotion in the household he had not the least doubt who was causing it. It was a new experience for the London servants, however, and they stood about in whispering groups. Pontley was led by the shrieks to Jennifer's room, where the door stood open and she was ripping the blue gown to shreds. “I hate it! I hate it!"

  Pontley strode into the room and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Stop that. You are making a scene again, Jennifer, and I will not have it."

  She stared at him with blazing eyes and screamed, “It is all your fault. I hate you! My aunt knew that such a gown should not be worn by someone of my youth and inexperience. And you let me wear it! Stupid, odious man. It is your fault that I was mortified and insulted. I hate you!"

  “If you do not control yourself this instant, Jennifer, I will pack you off to Lockwood in the carriage within the hour."

  “How can you?” she taunted. “You have sent your wretched coachman off to convey your housekeeper about the countryside."

  Pontley came close to striking her then. Only with the greatest effort of will was he able to snarl, “There is no shortage of coachmen in London, Jennifer. Control yourself or leave."

  Her bosom rose and fell rapidly, and her hands curled and uncurled, but she was not able to unlock her eyes from his implacable, cold ones. After a space she announced frigidly, “Very well, Philip. If you will please remove yourself from my room, I will dress now."

  In the breakfast room the dowager eyed his grim face warily. “What now, Pontley?"

  “The future mistress of Lockwood was disposing of her blue gown in her own inimitable way, Aunt Gertrude. After a night's reflection she has come to the conclusion that it was a gross error in my judgment to allow her to wear it. You may be pleased to hear that she praised your good sense in the matter."

  “I told you not to let her wear it.” There was a tentative note of triumph in the comment.

  “So you did. But then, for all the trouble, I find the results more satisfactory this way. I doubt she will have any desire to wear such a gown again. You might even trade on her current charity with you to see that her new purchases are suitably altered. I would bow to your judgment in this case."

  “No amount of altering will change their colors,” the old woman snapped.

  “Then return them."

  “You can't do that with a specially made dress, Pontley. They will have to be given away."

  “An expensive lesson. The first of many, if I am not mistaken."

  They were joined by a sullen Jennifer, who did no more than mumble in reply
to any remark addressed to her. Pontley soon excused himself.

  For the next two days Jennifer was reasonably well behaved. The dowager, suspicious but grateful, reluctantly agreed to introduce her to some of her friends. Their morning visits were uncommonly successful, for Jennifer set out to charm her hostesses, and few could be as charming as Jennifer when she wished to be. Word of her costume at the theatre had gotten about, but the young lady who now appeared in various drawing rooms was discreetly dressed and demure, with an irresistible helplessness which led her to seek one's worldly advice. The Dowager Lady Pontley knew well enough not to be taken in by the confiding, spriteful air, but no one else did. They were issued several invitations for fashionable routs and card parties.

  Even at these functions Jennifer disported herself becomingly under her aunt's watchful eye and her affianced husband's solicitous guidance. Pontley was not accustomed to London society and he made no pretense of being familiar with its niceties. There were examples enough to follow, to say nothing of the dowager's pungent comments. He made himself agreeable where it was necessary and formed a friendship or two where he was inclined. One of these men offered to put him up for Watier's, but Pontley was not as yet inclined to delve into London's exclusive clubs. He had quite enough on his hands with Jennifer.

  “Well, ride with me in the morning,” Mr. Archer suggested. “Nothing clears the head after one of these affairs better than an early morning ride."

  Pontley had agreed and found himself the following day in Hyde Park mounted on one of the two hacks he had purchased at Tattersall's. The other, a distinctively marked black mare, he had acquired for Jennifer as a token of his appreciation for her becoming behavior the past few days. She had proved suitably grateful, with a dimpled smile and an impulsive hug.

  After the days bound in by the city, Pontley thoroughly enjoyed the ride, a long one which would make him later than usual for breakfast, but since he was always the first in the household to have his meal, it made no difference. Archer proved an interesting companion, conversant on politics and the arts, society and the theatre. As they approached the gates, their attention was claimed by a gathering of people about a young man who appeared to be delivering a speech. Archer called to an acquaintance to ask who it was.