Drury Lane Darling

by Joan Smith

  “What delicious mutton,” Lady Chamaude exclaimed. “I should love to taste your spring lamb.” And a little sauce for this dry mutton!

  “You knew it was our own,” Sir Aubrey said with approval. “Most of the farmers hereabouts raise cattle, you must know. Very few of us are into sheep.”

  “Your son is constantly boasting about Belmont,” the marquise told him.

  Nigel was astonished to hear it. He would no more have discussed the farm with Fleur than he would discuss the greenroom with his mother. Fleur was certainly up to all the rigs. She just said that to turn Papa up sweet, and it was working, too, by Jove. The scowl he’d brought to the table had mellowed to civility when the ladies rose to leave. How did Fleur even know they raised sheep? You couldn’t see them from the road.

  When the ladies retired to the saloon, the gentlemen’s taking of port was enlivened by Nigel’s account of his extraordinary luck. “You’ll never guess what, Papa. Wes has commissioned me to write a play for Drury Lane.”

  “Not commissioned!” Breslau objected swiftly. “I just suggested you think about it, after you’ve finished this editing job for Colchester.”

  Nigel had been so shocked to hear Breslau ask him to sleep in his suite that some excuse had to be given. Bereft of a sane one, Breslau had fallen back on Lady Raleigh’s suggestion. “Sleep in the cot in my suite tonight, and we’ll discuss it after the assembly.”

  “You would do better to come home and learn estate management,” his father said.

  “There’s plenty of time for that. You are still young, Papa.”

  “How does it pay?” Sir Aubrey asked.

  “That depends on how good it is,” Nigel explained. “I’ll get royalties every time it’s performed, and if Colchester publishes it as a book, there’ll be more money. It could run into thousands,” he said blissfully.

  “Of course not every play opens at Drury Lane or Covent Garden,” Breslau threw in. “We might want to run it through the provinces for a few months till it’s polished.”

  “What kind of a play did you have in mind?” his father asked. “Your mama won’t want you writing anything risqué, lad.”

  “I wouldn’t ask Fleur to perform anything licentious, Papa,” Nigel said, offended.

  A scowl alit on Sir Aubrey’s brow. “She’s to act it, is she?”

  “Of course.”

  “The play hasn’t been cast. The thing isn’t even in the planning stage yet,” Breslau said hastily. “It will give Nigel something to think about over the coming year.”

  “Year?” Nigel scoffed. “I’ll have a finished manuscript on your desk within a month. I’m not one of those fellows who sweats and strains over every word. You’ll see, Wes.”

  “Don’t rush it. Take your time,” Breslau urged.

  During the next half hour, a dozen obscure plots were discussed. Sir Aubrey was nearly as relieved as Breslau to escape tales of sultans and pirates and wild Indians. They joined the ladies for the trip to the Hatfield assembly.

  The marquise caused all the stir she was accustomed to when she entered the assembly hall on Breslau’s arm. Word had spread that she would be visiting Belmont, and the town awaited her arrival with bated breath. Like Miss Comstock, they expected a trifle more dash in her outfit, but overall they were thrilled. Several of them had seen her perform in London and came forward to tell her how much they enjoyed her work.

  With Lady Raleigh at the helm, there was no question of Nigel being the actress’s first partner. Breslau knew his duty, and he did it. He noticed Fleur’s excitement when General Max entered the hall with his family. His mother and his two sisters and their husbands accompanied him. Max preceded the group with the same stately strut with which he preceded his men into battle. The general had long since abandoned his regimentals, but he still carried himself with a fine military air, and didn’t object to being addressed as General Max.

  The general had been an outstanding specimen of manhood in his youth. At fifty, he was still called handsome. His jet-black hair had thinned in front and silvered around the temples. It was true his jaw now more closely resembled jelly than concrete, but his eyes were still steely, and his nose as strong as ever. His shoulders had a harder time remaining erect with the beginning of a paunch to balance, but all in all he remained one of the sights of Hatfield.

  All this aging virility had a way of feeling six years old when his mother fixed him with her own icy stare. “Hmph,” she said. “I see Dot Raleigh has brought the actress along. We shan’t recognize her. Dot has promised not to introduce us.”

  General Max hadn’t owned up to knowing the marquise. It was his sisters who objected to this rough usage. “Oh, Mama! We can meet her. Everyone is. Look, there’s Lord Breslau standing up with her, and he is top of the trees.”

  “Dot invited Breslau to keep the hussy from Aubrey. You ladies must consult with your husbands as to whether they will permit you to know the actress. Max and I shall visit the card room.”

  Max installed his mother at the whist table and darted back to the ballroom. It was going to be tricky knowing Fleur when Mama was in the card room, and cutting her when she was present. Mama was good for at least an hour at the card table, and he joined Breslau and Fleur as soon as the music ended.

  Breslau breathed a sigh of relief and looked around for Pamela. “Miss Comstock?” he said, and offered her his arm.

  She accepted it gratefully, thankful that her first session with Nigel was over. Her smile of relief told the story.

  “It’s best to get the unpleasant inevitable over with at the beginning. Then you can enjoy the rest of the evening,” Breslau said.

  “Why Lord Breslau,” she exclaimed, frowning. “I don’t in the least mind standing up with you. Where did you get such a notion?”

  Breslau was speechless. He was accustomed to being courted, and felt he was doing Miss Comstock considerable honor by standing up with her. His stunned air gave Pamela pause.

  Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh,” she said, aghast. “You meant Nigel!”

  “I didn’t realize I featured as an ogre in your mind.”

  “Of course not. No one is trying to make me marry you. I should be happy to dance with you. Truly, I don’t mind in the least.”

  “No further explanations are necessary, Miss Comstock,” he said through thin lips. “Speaking of marriage, what had Nigel to say about his untimely confession to his mother?”

  “I did most of the talking. I rang a good peel over him I can tell you. I told him his father would cut him off. That will make him think.” After a frowning pause, she continued. “You never told me what it was you thought Sir Aubrey had told his wife. When we were speaking before dinner, some confusion arose….”

  “A misunderstanding. I assumed Nigel would discuss it with his father first.” He looked around for a set to join.

  Pamela frowned, dissatisfied with this explanation. Why should Breslau look relieved when he learned the truth? But a ball wasn’t the place to discuss it. To keep Fleur in good humor, it was to her set that Breslau led his partner. General Max’s sisters, knowing their mama was safely bestowed behind a whist table, flew to join them, just a step behind their husbands. They were perfect pattern cards of smiling admiration. Fleur preened her feathers, and with a coy little smile at General Max, said, “Your sisters are even more charming than you told me.”

  This outrageous lie should have set the country bumpkins to smirking in pleasure. Fleur was hard put to account for the sudden stiffening of their faces.

  Mrs. Stearne, the elder of the two, lifted a sapient brow and said to her brother, “Why, Max, you neglected to tell us you had the honor of the marquise’s acquaintance before this evening.”

  The younger sister added mischievously, “Mama will be so thrilled. You must present the marquise to her. Perhaps we can all sit together for dinner.”

  Fleur was something of an expert at reading expressions and interpreting snubs. No sloth herself in deliverin
g a setdown, she replied haughtily, “Unfortunately I have promised to dine with Lord Breslau. Perhaps another time, ladies.”

  General Max glared at the assembled company. He didn’t know which one he’d like to run his sword through first. How dare Fleur announce their friendship in front of his family! How dare his sisters roast her in public. And worst of all, how dare Breslau try to cut him out!

  The innocent chit with Breslau was the only one he could speak to without cursing, so he ignored Fleur’s taunt and turned his fulminating stare on Pamela. “Visiting Belmont again, eh, Miss Comstock? I hope we shall soon have the permanent pleasure of your company amongst us.”

  His speech brought a frown to the last smiling face in the group, and in this awful mood, they began dancing.

  “Do I detect undercurrents in our set?” Pam asked Breslau when the steps of the dance allowed them a moment’s privacy.

  “If you’ve detected the ill will, then it’s no longer an undercurrent.”

  “Is she General Max’s flirt?” Pam asked eagerly.

  “Not when she is at Hatfield, it seems.”

  “Mrs. Maxwell wouldn’t approve.”

  As soon as the dance was over, Maxwell’s sisters flew toward the card room. General Max knew he was in for it, and got rid of Fleur before his mother could come pouncing down on them. He left her standing alone, turned tail and ran without even thanking her for the dance. Fleur’s nostrils quivered in mute fury. She retired from the floor with Breslau and Pamela.

  Breslau tried to calm her. “Fleur, don’t let this—”

  “Save your directions for the stage, milord. This is my affair.” She strode angrily off to the ladies cloakroom to recover her equanimity.

  “Didn’t I tell you it would be exciting!” Pamela exclaimed. Her topaz eyes were gleaming with the unwonted pleasure of the melodrama.

  “You’re in for even greater excitement before the night’s over. Fleur won’t take this sitting down.”

  “I wonder why she started all this brouhaha. I don’t mean about Nigel—I acquit her of that. But if she’s a close friend of General Max’s, she must know how his mama would dislike the friendship.”

  “Fleur doesn’t flinch from a little drama. Fur will fly before the night’s over,” Breslau replied. A frown pleated his brow as he watched her stormy exit.

  “I had the impression at dinner that she was walking on eggs, and bending over backward not to upset the Raleighs.”

  A smile quirked Breslau’s lip at this mixing of metaphors. “She was bound to crack a few shells, trying to walk on eggs in such an ungainly posture.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  They strolled to the refreshment parlor for a glass of ratafia, which inferior beverage was still popular in the provinces. Her recent encounters with drama made Pamela realize how dreary her life was. For a brief moment she began visualizing herself in Fleur’s shoes.

  As Breslau led her to a seat she said, “It must be exciting, working in the theater. Producing plays is a game, really. I fancy anyone could do it.”

  “Fancy again. It’s hard work.”

  “Of course, it’s rather déclassé,” she added pensively.

  Once more Breslau’s mobile brow rose to denote his disapproval. “Oh, I don’t mean for you, Lord Breslau. How quick you are to take offense, like a deb of uncertain provenance. I was thinking of myself as an actress. It can’t be infra dig for a gentleman to involve himself peripherally in the theater.”

  The sensitive eyebrow rose higher. Breslau considered himself more or less the focus of Drury Lane.

  His companion ignored these subtle signs of dissatisfaction. “Acting would be out of the question,” she continued. “Do you think it possible for a lady to, perhaps, write a play?”

  “Unexceptionable,” he admitted. “Even the Religious Tract Society couldn’t object. Your mentor, Hanna More, turned her fine hand to it, with considerable success, I might add.”

  “I wonder if I could do it.” Pamela mused.

  Breslau was a trifle put out that the young lady was at so little pains to institute a flirtation. In this mood he said, “You’re too young, and unaware of life to try it for a few years yet. One must live before she puts her experiences to paper.”

  “Nigel has no more experience than I have,” she snipped, and turned her head away to show Breslau she was unhappy with him.

  He was quite simply amazed to find himself ignored by a country miss whom he had honored with his attentions. Not only ignored, she went out of her way to argue with him! She actually found it conceivable that standing up with him was an unpleasant duty. His eyes slid down to her profile, and he found himself gazing at a small, shell-like ear, as dainty as a newborn babe’s. A thick chestnut curl nestled on the ivory nape of her neck. He felt an urge to touch it.

  While he sat, entranced at the feelings this farouche young lady was engendering in him, she suddenly turned to face him, and he was struck once more by the beauty of her eyes. “Who’s the gentleman with the marquise?” she asked.

  He leaned forward and peered through the broad archway, to where Fleur stood in earnest conversation with a young stranger.

  “He can’t be from Hatfield. I’ve never seen him,” Pamela said. She had the countryman’s eager interest in strangers. Added to it was the bonus that this particular stranger was young and handsome, and wearing a jacket of a cut seldom seen in the country.

  Breslau felt a burning sensation in his chest. Jealousy was a stranger to him; he thought it was merely annoyance at the interruption in their conversation. “Would you like to be presented to him?” he asked, intending sarcasm.

  She immediately bounced to her feet. “I should like it of all things. Do hurry, Lord Breslau, he’s leaving.”

  By the time they reached the ballroom, the man had left, and a group of locals were shyly shimmying forward to compliment the Flawless Fleur.

  “Too late,” Pamela said, and looked around for some other group to join.

  Breslau placed a firm but gentle hand on her elbow to lead her back to the refreshment parlor.

  “Let’s stay here,” she suggested. “There’s no one in the refreshment parlor. We’d be all alone, and I haven’t found a partner for the next set yet.”

  Breslau smiled in rising dudgeon and remained in the ballroom. So the lump spurned the opportunity of being alone with him! Had God sent her to teach him a lesson? Miss Comstock had soon attracted another gentleman’s eye. A callow youth approached, and she smiled in apparent pleasure at someone called Ethan, wearing a jacket Breslau wouldn’t have tolerated on his servants.

  “I hear the marquise is putting up with the Raleighs,” the young man said. “What’s she like, Pam?”

  “Not nearly as dashing as I had hoped,” Pamela replied, and began to regale him with some anecdotes.

  Breslau coldly excused himself and left, perfectly aware that he wouldn’t be missed one iota. He made a firm resolution not to honor Miss Comstock with another dance, and stuck with it till after dinner, which was a perfectly hideous affair. Fleur was in one of her moods, and became louder and less polite as the meal advanced. She flirted with every yahoo who stopped at the table to meet her.

  The more she flirted the stiffer Lady Raleigh’s face grew, till in the end she couldn’t get her mouth pried open to eat anything. A delicious cream bun grew soft on her plate, and cream buns were one of her few weaknesses. The Maxwell table was about the only one in the room that wasn’t staring at Lady Chamaude with varying degrees of ire or admiration or mirth. No eye at the general’s table was allowed to come within a right angle of the actress.

  “An intolerable evening,” was Lady Raleigh’s opinion when they reached home, and for a change, her husband agreed with her.

  “I have a splitting headache,” she said. “The youngsters will remain belowstairs for a half hour or so. Breslau will play propriety. If I am with that creature for another moment, I shall crown her.”

  She informed Br
eslau of his duty and retired abovestairs at once. He was incensed to hear himself relegated to the role of chaperone, but concealed it like the well-bred gentleman he was. Sir Aubrey accompanied his dame upstairs. He thought the open doorway was an oversight. Dot had specifically mentioned she had a headache. He wouldn’t inopportune her at this critical juncture. He’d need all her goodwill to explain a few matters.

  The marquise had only a glass of wine before retiring. “I’ll look over chapter four before sleeping,” she said to Nigel. “Tomorrow morning we’ll get busy on it. I expect you’ll find more broken sentences. He is always teasing me about my poor grammar,” she explained. “Say ten o’clock in the library?”

  Nigel smiled a blissful smile. “I’ll be waiting.” He sighed, then turned to the guests. “Well, this visit ain’t going as badly as you thought it would, Wes.”

  “No, it is going worse,” Breslau replied, and helped himself to wine. He brought a glass to Pamela, which she set aside, untouched, though she did give him the echo of a smile for his thoughtfulness. It was enough encouragement that he sat beside her.

  Any notion of proceeding with the flirtation was soon dispatched. His charges had other matters on what they chose to call their minds. Nigel firmly refused to discuss Fleur with Pamela. He held the floor, “trying an idea for the play” out on them.

  “I envisage a hero with a surfeit of hubris, and a heroine chockfull of altruism to knock the stuffing out of him—philosophically speaking I mean.”

  “Could you translate that into English?” Pamela asked.

  “In simple words that even you could understand, what I have in mind is a confrontation between a man of specious good and a woman of intrinsic merit, who is spurned by society for some reason or other.”

  “Another simpering, put-upon heroine and a villain for her to tame into a hero,” Breslau said wearily. “At least we aren’t to be treated to autobiography, the other failing of amateurs. Try for a little originality, Nigel, and a little heart. Fleur aims her arrows south of the neck.”