Ginnie Come Lately

by Carola Dunn

  Ginnie sat down with her mother and Lady Matilda, the earl having cannily sequestered himself with Gilbert and his books.

  “Lord Medford seems very pleasant,” she said hopefully. Perhaps all the guests would turn out equally agreeable.

  “Medford is a nice boy,” Lady Matilda agreed. Like the countess, she had an embroidery frame before her, but while Lady Wooburn had continued to set industrious stitches, Lady Matilda had been too busy watching everyone. “And Lydia is a kind-hearted girl who will soon be on intimate terms with his sister.”

  Guessing her train of thought, Ginnie said with a smile, “You must not read too much into Lord Medford’s stunned expression, Aunt. Few gentlemen set eyes on Lydia for the first time without looking like veritable mooncalves.”

  “Very likely, my dear, but what a coup it would be to catch her a marquis!”

  “You must not look too high. Papa was only a country gentleman.”

  “My girls are fit to marry the highest in the land,” Lady Wooburn said stoutly.

  Lady Matilda patted her hand and said, “Of course, Emma dear.’’ Ginnie was amused to note that she had already adopted the soothing manner towards Mama common to her children and her husband.

  The next to arrive were the Honourable Alfred Bascom with his sister, Lady Pierce, and her husband. Ginnie did not need Reynolds’ announcement to guess their identities, so exactly had Justin described them.

  Prom head to foot. Lady Pierce was dressed à la militaire. Her hat was a shako with gold braid and a white cockade. Her Wellington mantle had gold epaulets on the shoulders, and her pelisse à la hussar was frogged down the front and liberally braided everywhere else.

  “I see my costume makes you stare, Miss Webster,” she observed with a dismissive glance at Ginnie’s sprig-muslin morning dress. “I dare say you patronize a country seamstress? Military fashions are all the rage in Town this year.’’

  “M’wife’s hoping Bonaparte escapes again,” her husband drawled sarcastically, “so that she can rush into battle.” Lord Pierce wore a superbly fitted dark blue coat over an ivory waistcoat. His neckcloth was of moderate height, tied with simple precision. Dove-coloured inexpressibles, glossy white-topped boots, and a single fob completed his toilet. Not a hair was out of place.

  His brother-in-law looked like a caricature of him. The gilt buttons on Mr. Bascom’s wasp-waisted peacock coat were as big as saucers. Daffodil waistcoat clashed with primrose pantaloons. Huge gold tassels adorned his boots, half a dozen jewelled fobs dangled at his waist, and his cravat was a miracle of intricacy that appeared to be strangling him. His bow to the ladies was a model of discretion—if he had bowed any lower his shirt-points would certainly have gouged out his eyes.

  Ginnie bit her lip to suppress a giggle.

  “Fancy you’re admiring my cravat, ma’am,” he said condescendingly. “Invented the knot myself. I call it the Metropolitan because only those well acquainted with London modes can appreciate its finer points.” Like his sister, he dismissed Ginnie’s new gown with a glance, relegating her to the ranks of those unacquainted with the highest kick of fashion.

  “Popinjay,” Lady Matilda snorted in her ear.

  Comparing Mr. Bascom’s, and even Lord Pierce’s attire with Justin’s casual morning dress and Lord Medford’s riding clothes, Ginnie agreed and felt better. Lady Elizabeth, too, was much more simply dressed than Lady Pierce, more suitably for the country. Nonetheless, Ginnie was glad of her new wardrobe.

  She wondered whether Lady Amabel favoured the extremes of fashion. Surely not, since Justin had spoken slightingly of Lady Pierce’s taste. On the other hand, love was said to be blind. Ginnie waited in a fever of impatience for the arrival of Lady Amabel and her mother.

  As if to thwart her, the Parringales came next. Mrs. Parringale wore floating draperies of an acid green that reminded Ginnie of her nickname, Parrot, and the colour complemented her acid tongue. Within a few minutes of entering the drawing room, she was regaling Lady Pierce with a “delicious on-dit” about Wellington and Lady Wedderburn-Webster.

  “Right in the middle of the park in Brussels,” she exclaimed in her high-pitched voice. “They disappeared into a wooded hollow, without the least discretion. Is it not shocking? And then her mother arrived in a carriage and went snooping after her, without success, I understand. I am speaking of Lady Mountnorris, Miss Webster. No doubt you do not know the people of whom I speak. I dare say you have never met the Duke of Wellington?”

  Ginnie was obliged to admit to the lamentable deficiency in her acquaintance. She was next subjected to an interrogation by Mr. Parringale regarding her antecedents. That her father was an untitled country gentleman did not dismay him. However, when he discovered that the Websters could trace their ancestry through no more than three generations, he deserted her in favour of the daughter of a marquis. Too timid to flee, Lady Elizabeth was forced to listen to two centuries’ worth of the Parringale family tree before Justin realized her plight and rescued her.

  He brought her to Ginnie. “You will be comfortable with Miss Webster,” he told her, smiling, but with a hunted look in his eyes. Turning to Ginnie, he said softly, “My apologies. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “The reality vastly surpasses your descriptions,” she said wryly, meeting his gaze with understanding and acceptance of his remorse.

  “Lady Trenton. Lady Amabel Fellowes,” announced Reynolds.

  The Countess of Trenton completely obscured her daughter. A massive woman, triple-chinned, encased in a tent-like garment of dull purple, she waddled forward to meet Lady Wooburn. Ginnie thought of a few remarks worthy of Mrs. Parringale that she’d like to address to Justin on the subject of daughters growing to resemble their mothers.

  Then she saw Lady Amabel, a striking, willowy figure in flame-coloured lutestring trimmed with black. Beneath a bonnet of flame velvet surmounted by three black plumes, raven ringlets set off a perfectly oval face with a full red mouth and dark, lustrous, black-lashed eyes. Ginnie immediately felt utterly insipid. It was quite impossible to conceive of so glorious a creature ever approaching Lady Trenton’s mountainous stature.

  Justin had turned as the ladies were announced, so Ginnie had not been able to witness his expression. However, Lady Amabel swept forward, holding out her hands to him, ignoring both her hostess’s prior claims and the two young ladies at his side.

  “My dear Amis, we are reunited at last,” Lady Amabel fluted, confirming Ginnie’s every suspicion. “How I have longed to see your home.”

  Perforce he took her hands and raised one to his lips as he bowed. “Welcome to Wooburn, Lady Amabel. Allow me to present you to my stepmother.’’

  “Ah yes, the rapacious widow, ’’ she said, scarcely troubling to lower her voice as she laid a possessive hand on his arm.

  Justin winced, knowing that Ginnie must have heard. “The Countess of Wooburn,” he admonished, leading Amabel across the room.

  “Of course. I most sincerely commiserate with you, Lord Amis, and I pity your poor father.”

  As he might have guessed. Lady Wooburn failed to understand and therefore to be offended. “Pray do not disturb yourself, Lady Amabel,” she said in her soft voice. “Lord Wooburn is not unwell. He has gone off to study his books when he ought to be here to make everyone welcome. I shall scold him, I promise you, but I doubt it will do any good. He is quite the scholar, you know,” she added proudly.

  “You have done him a world of good in wresting him from his studies to be more sociable.” Justin said kindly.

  It was the first time he had voiced his gratitude. She beamed at him. If Amabel was disconcerted, she did not show it.

  His aunt, meanwhile, was regarding him with a minatory eye. All too plainly, she disapproved of his choice of guests. Hastily he introduced Amabel to her.

  “Lady Matilda, how I have longed to meet you. I am resolved to be on the friendliest terms with all Lord Amis’s relations.”

  Aunt Matilda gave him a s
tartled look. He hastily turned away to greet Lady Trenton.

  “Such a pity Trenton is delayed,” that lady boomed. “You will have to possess your soul in patience for another day or two, dear boy.”

  As he once more escaped, taking Amabel back to meet Ginnie, he heard Lady Trenton continue, “An understanding of long duration, Lady Wooburn. My dear Amabel turned off any number of suitors while...”

  He suppressed a groan.

  Ginnie, her face pale but her chin defiantly raised, avoided his eyes as she stood to greet Lady Amabel. She did not curtsy, and Justin was proud of her dignified bearing. Beside Amabel’s striking flamboyance, she had a simple elegance that he suddenly found infinitely more attractive.

  Amabel nodded coolly. Her uninterested gaze passed over the modestly dressed Marquis of Medford, who had come to join his young sister.

  “Lady Amabel,” said Ginnie, “may I present Lord Medford and Lady Elizabeth Innes.”

  “Lord Medford!” Amabel instantly decided that George was worthy of her notice after all. She fluttered her long eyelashes at him. “Have we not met before? At Almack’s, perhaps?”

  “Hardly, ma’am. Being an indifferent dancer, I never attend Almack’s. I shall take Lizzie in the spring, of course,” he added as his sister looked up at him anxiously.

  “You’ll be expected to take to the floor at the Masons’, George,” Justin told him.

  “I shall enjoy that. A few country dances with congenial people is quite different from the formal waltzes and quadrilles at Almack’s.”

  “The squire has invited us all to a ball next week,” Justin explained to Amabel.

  “La, a country hop, how tedious. But I have a famous notion. Why do you not give a ball here at Wooburn, Lord Amis, to celebrate our.. .to amuse your guests?”

  “Perhaps we could.” He caught Ginnie’s aghast expression. “Just a small, informal affair for our neighbours, if it would not be too much work, Ginnie?”

  “No, I expect Mrs. Peaskot and I can manage it,” she said valiantly. “We do owe our neighbours some entertainment.”

  “Local gentry!” Amabel exclaimed in scorn. “My dear Miss Webster, that may do very well for you, but it is not at all what I had in mind, I vow. Even in the country and at short notice, a dress ball given by Lord Amis cannot fail to attract any number of people of consequence.”

  “However, an evening of dancing for my guests and neighbours is what I have in mind,” said Justin firmly. If my father and my stepmama agree. We’ll discuss it later, Ginnie. Do you care for a stroll in the gardens, Lady Amabel?” He hustled her out, willy-nilly, before she had a chance to slight anyone else.

  If he had still hoped that his guests’ polish would show up the Websters as shabby-genteel, he’d have been sorely disappointed. Amabel knew how to behave at a royal drawing room, and she would never do anything to incur the censure of Almack’s patronesses. Yet Ginnie had in her little finger more of the natural good manners that stem from consideration for the feelings of others.

  Why had he never before noticed Amabel’s lack of courtesy? Of course, he had only seen her surrounded by those whose opinion she valued. Also, he had to admit, he had been dazzled by her striking beauty, her birth and fortune, and her preference for his company.

  She was no whit less beautiful now, her birth and fortune remained impressive, and she undoubtedly considered him her future husband. As they turned into the shady yew walk, out of sight of the house, she stopped and raised her face to him, her eyes expectant.

  * * *

  Chapter 17

  Justin kissed Amabel, and it left him utterly unmoved. He knew he had to marry her and he hoped to reanimate his wish to make her his wife. But he had felt more emotion on shaking George’s hand after their long separation. How long ago it seemed, how young be had been, when first Amabel’s beauty and vivacity had attracted him.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said stiffly, moving away from her. “It was unforgivable in me to take advantage of being alone with you.”

  Her trilling laugh, which had once enchanted him, now made him feel a complete jobbernowl. “My dear Justin, I wonder that you have never kissed me before. After all, we are as good as betrothed. Surely you do not suppose that Papa might refuse his permission when he comes? We might even have been wed by now, I vow, were it not for your own father’s mésalliance having forced you to rush down here.”

  “I do not consider my father’s marriage a mésalliance.”

  “La, you are all forbearance. To be sure, what is done is done, and you will soon be able to banish the widow and her brood to the dower house, no doubt.”

  Since only his father’s death could bring that about, Justin was appalled by her insensitivity. “Not for many years, I trust,” he said, frowning.

  His offended tone must have penetrated her self-absorption, for she began to praise the gardens of Wooburn Court. “The country can be quite pleasant in the summer,” she observed. “However, one is always glad to escape back to Town in September, I vow.”

  Justin made no effort to correct her misconception that he intended to spend most of the year in London once they were married. Somehow he was going to persuade her that she did not want to marry him.

  For how could he marry Amabel when he loved Ginnie?

  As they strolled, as Amabel chattered on, his growing dislike of her had suddenly put his feelings for Ginnie into perspective. Ginnie was everything Amabel was not. She lacked Amabel’s birth and fortune. She was pretty, whereas Amabel was beautiful. But she was kind and loving, loyal, steadfast, equally ready to throw her energies into protecting her family or into the practical matters of the household.

  Ginnie was warm, and sweet, and altogether desirable. He ached to hold her. Next time he kissed her—and there would be a next time, he vowed—he’d do it deliberately and thoroughly, and he’d tell her he loved her.

  He dared to hope that she might love him, too. She had not pulled away from his embrace in the woods, had even begun to return his passion when...

  He started as Amabel demanded his opinion. “Shockingly vulgar, was it not?”

  Though he had not been attending, he had a vague idea she had been repeating an on-dit about Princess Charlotte. “I don’t care for scandal,” he told her abruptly. Her rumour-mongering had caused his feud with the Websters.

  She stared at him in surprise. “But everyone gossips,” she protested. “People are quite the most amusing subject of conversation.”

  He did not trouble to explain the difference between innocent gossip and the kind of malicious tittle-tattle that spread false tales, held people up to ridicule, and ruined reputations. He was not going to marry her.

  To his relief, they rounded the end of the yew walk to find that several of the others had come out to stroll in the gardens. He and Amabel joined Alfred Bascom and Mrs. Parringale. After a few minutes, he claimed a need to speak to his other guests and slipped away.

  Ginnie was not in the gardens. Justin returned to the drawing room and narrowly avoided being waylaid by his aunt. Lady Matilda, he was sure, had several pungent comments on her lips regarding Amabel’s and Lady Trenton’s broad hints of forthcoming nuptials.

  He managed to avoid her, only to learn from Reynolds that Ginnie, George, Lydia and Lady Elizabeth had gone down to the lake. For the moment he gave up his attempt to see Ginnie. It would be just as well if he had a scheme prepared for repulsing Amabel before he avowed his love for Ginnie. He racked his brains.

  * * * *

  By the time Justin dressed for dinner, no plan had occurred to him beyond the adoption of a discouraging manner. He went down to the drawing room early to make sure all was in order. Though he did not doubt Mrs. Peaskot’s or Reynolds’s competence, many years had passed since Wooburn had accommodated guests, and Ginnie had never before entertained a house party.

  The drawing room was pleasantly welcoming, with a vase of tall phlox in the fireplace and sweet peas elsewhere scenting the air. A tray of
drinks stood on a table. The evening sun shining through the French windows reminded him of the dust-up he had had with Ginnie over the twins. If she had forgiven him for that, making the acquaintance of his guests had no doubt put her back up again.

  He had allowed himself to forget that Ginnie was not always warm and sweetly desirable. When vexed, she was as prickly as Judith’s hedgehog. With an indulgent smile, he recognized that before he attempted to persuade her of his love, it was not merely just as well, but rather, imperative to dispose of Amabel’s claims upon him.

  Crossing to the connecting door, he glanced around the dining room. White linen, gleaming silver, and sparkling glass met his eyes. On the table and the sideboard, Reynolds had already set out several cold dishes under silver covers. Justin went over to peek under the largest. A galantine of veal, decorated with slices of lemon and sprigs of parsley and mint, whetted his appetite. Cook had obviously put forth her best efforts.

  He returned to the drawing room and was about to close the door behind him when a sound made him turn. The door to the dining-room from the hall was opening, very, very slowly.

  Justin promptly closed his door all but a crack and applied his eye to that crack. He was not at all surprised to see a segment of freckled face topped with ruffled blond hair inch round the other door. A blue eye scanned the room.

  “Psst, all clear.” Jack—or perhaps it was Jimmy—disappeared. “Hurry up.”

  For the first time he had caught the wretches in the act. And he had absolutely no urge to stop them.

  At worst, they would annoy his guests. At best—or rather, at their worst—they might succeed in convincing Amabel that she wanted nothing more to do with Wooburn Court and its inhabitants, including him.

  He watched, fascinated, as a twin advanced furtively into the dining room bearing in both hands, with the greatest care, a dish with a silver cover. Making his way to the sideboard, he stared in dismay, then tamed his head.

  “Jimmy,” he called in a piercing whisper, “there’s no room here!”