Babe

by Joan Smith

  “Romeo, I am not marrying you,” she told him. “I never said I would. In fact, I have told you dozens of times I would not. I am going home with Clivedon.”

  “You are disgusted with me,” he said simply. “I hardly blame you. A gentleman who makes such an appalling mess . . .” He stopped and examined her critically. “You have got a spot on your cheek now. That is three spots you have got tonight. I noticed one on your hand before, only I hesitated to harp on it as we were about to . . . If you are not planning to stay perfect, Barbara, I hope you will tell me.”

  “I was never perfect, you ninny!” she pointed out.

  “In the pulchritudinal desert of London you appeared so to my famished eyes. But with all those spots . . . and really, it was not nice for you to try to seduce me before the wedding, either. I was shocked, but so eager to have you that I gave in, and even tried to find excuses for it.”

  “I was not seducing you, you silly twit. I was only trying to get away from you.”

  “You called me your love, for the first time, tonight.”

  “You called me your wife in front of the innkeeper, but it doesn’t mean I am. How could you be so stupid as to think I’d marry you, after you kidnapped me and tied me up—”

  “With silken bands, verbena scented,” he reminded her. Then he picked up her Grecian wool blanket and sniffed it, with a satisfied sigh. “Lovely,” he told her.

  Clivedon stood back, listening in amusement while they bickered. “It is that stupid old blanket you wrapped me up in that is causing these spots. I feel itchy all over to remember it.”

  “It never gave any other girl spots,” he retorted. “And it is improper to call a blanket stupid. A transferred epithet, I think?” He looked to Clivedon for confirmation of this grammatical irrelevancy.

  “I daresay Adele was so busy belching she hadn't time to grow a spot,” Barbara retaliated.

  “Maybe I will marry you,” he reconsidered. “You are very beautiful when you are angry. Yes, I will. Clivesmore, you are a man of the world. Explain to Barbara why I had to kidnap her. It was only partly showing off that I am a man of action and resolution. I had to teach her, as well, that she is under my control, subject to obey my orders. I can’t have a wife who sets herself in opposition to me.”

  “You’re carrying off the wrong girl, I can tell you,” Clivedon warned him.

  “Obey you, you spouting popinjay. Whip you is more like it,” Barbara replied, incensed.

  “I don’t want an intransigent wife. There is no record of the Sabine women being so unruly.”

  “He meant to rape me, like the Sabine women,” Barbara said aside to Clivedon, with a wrathful eye.

  “You may count yourself lucky you weren’t hammered into a wooden horse,” he informed her.

  “Ah, the Trojan War—an apt analogy, Clivesmare. Excellent. Fair Helen, launching a thousand ships . . .” His eyes played over Lady Barbara, lingering on her lips. “I wonder if Helen was a dutiful wife.”

  “You don’t want a wife. You want a caryatid or a demmed statue,” Barbara answered hotly.

  “I don’t like to hear you use vulgar language, my dear.”

  “You’ll hear language that will curl your psychë if you ever pester me again. Clivedon, please take me away, before I hit him again.”

  “Did you hit me?” he asked, then smiled. “Ah, you can be a Fury, too, you Infinite Woman. But does this mean you have ceased to love me?”

  “Love you? I love – I love Ellingwood better than I ever loved you.”

  “Isn’t she glorious when she’s in a temper?” he asked of Clivedon.

  “Resplendent, except for the spots,” he answered, surveying her critically.

  “If I hear another word about spots!” she exclaimed angrily.

  “I expect you’ll hear quite a few words about them before the night is over,” Clivedon said. “Ah, here is a caller—the doctor, I hope?”

  The doctor stepped into the room, took one look at Lady Barbara, and diagnosed her instantly. “Measles,” he declared. “A good deal of it going around. Best get to bed, milady.”

  “She has been trying to get there all evening, I understand,” Clivedon mentioned, with a rallying glance to the angry lady. “But there were a host of unforeseen difficulties.”

  “Aye, I daresay you’ve been feeling poorly,” the doctor told her. “The worst of the fever and nausea are over once the spots are out. You’ll be feeling pulled for a day or two yet.”

  “Perhaps you would be kind enough to have a look at this fellow while you are here,’” Clivedon suggested. “He—fell, and struck his head on a caryatid. We cannot remain long, and would like to know he is in no danger before leaving.”

  “Did I fall, too?” Romeo asked, interested in his recent past. “That’s why my head aches so. I know how Zeus felt, before Pallas Athene popped out of his head, fully armored.”

  Barbara cast a worried glance at him, fearing he had run quite mad at last. “More Greek stories,” Clivedon told her quietly aside.

  The doctor examined Romeo’s bump, prescribed a paregoric draught and a good night’s sleep, and gave him permission to resume his trip in the morning.

  “We’ll leave you, then,” Clivedon said, putting a hand on Barbara's elbow.

  “About the Clitias vase, Clysedale . . .” Romeo mentioned vaguely.

  “Thank you, no. The patched-up forgery will do well enough for me. I really don’t care so much for the Greek ideal as you do.”

  “Extraordinary, that lack of discretion exhibited in your possessions. But then, there was always a streak of the barbarian in you. I attributed it to jealousy.”

  “How very wise of you.”

  “So I am to lose my little Barbarian,” Romeo said, with a touch of sadness. “Zeus does not bring all men’s plans to fulfillment, alas! Still, there is that ravishing wench at Taunton . . .”

  “I pity her!” Barbara said, and, with an indignant look at her erstwhile suitor, she stalked off.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “How do you feel?” Clivedon asked as he tucked Barbara into his greatcoat for the trip home.

  “Better than I have all evening. I wanted to die earlier, at dinner, and when he kidnapped me. I daresay coming down with the measles didn’t help. Why have you kept yourself so scarce all day?”

  “I called on you this afternoon, so you must refer to my missing Ellingwood this morning,”

  “He was very angry with you.”

  “Were you?”

  “I was too sick to be angry with anyone, but where were you?”

  “Hiding in my study with the door locked, to prevent having to either give him permission to propose to you or forbid it, till I had a chance to propose to you first myself. A slight unfair advantage, of course, but I felt, in all honesty, I had earned it. It was your refusing to see me that created this little contretemps.”

  Barbara’s heart leapt in her chest at the words, but when she spoke, she did not acknowledge having heard them. In a high, nervous voice, she said, “I am in a worse pickle than ever, missing my own ball. Your sister will never forgive me. Just when I was trying so hard to be respectable.”

  “And deaf,” he added, undeceived.

  A nervous laugh escaped her. “Oh, you are joking, Clivedon. I am much too disreputable for you.”

  “I used to think I thought so, once upon a dull time. Lately I have had to reconsider the matter. My psychë was not content with that old decision. In fact, I have lately found you much too nice in your notions to suit me. Not wanting to smoke a cigar! But your latest spree leads me to hope you are not totally converted to the acceptable mode.”

  “But it was not my fault!”

  “Oh no, it was mine. I all but begged Romeo to do it. I knew you didn’t care for him, and had to make you see Ellingwood was not your type at heart either. He is not pleased with you, Babe.”

  “Pray tell me what you are talking about. How did you know Romeo would kidnap me?”


  “By refusing him permission to marry you. His dramatic soul was bound to be incensed enough with that to lead him to an elopement. I had to finance it myself, but I shall enjoy to have the portrait. There will be one thing in my barbarian house of which he approves, at least. Maybe two—if he doesn’t win the female at Taunton, he will be falling in love with you again.”

  “Why were you always after me to behave politely, then? It was you who nagged me into it.”

  “Naturally I wanted some semblance of behavior in my wife, at least a token that she was—no, I daren’t use the word ‘biddable.’ You’ll hit me. For your own peace of mind . . . Wrong again. I shall take a leaf from your last suitor’s book and blurt out the unvarnished truth. I was making you over for me, not anyone else. I wanted you to treat me with respect, and didn’t give a damn how you acted towards the rest of the world.”

  “Is it possible we are discussing Richmond Park, Clivedon?”

  “Entirely possible. I have been angry for two years, being insufferably proud, and my anger perhaps grew a little out of proportion. Yes, I wanted some petty revenge, too. Lady Graham was a revenge, and a mistake of which I am greatly ashamed. For the rest of it, it was a necessity which happened to coincide with my own wishes. Your health was suffering with so many late nights, and your reputation with the association you had with Fannie’s raffish friends. The gowns, while ravishing, were too dashing for a spinster, and the nags, of course, a positive danger to the whole city.”

  “How about my money? I think that’s the only thing you’ve left out.”

  “Naturally I wanted your dowry intact! How can you ask? We’ll need every penny of it to bribe our way out of future scrapes.”

  “Well, I think it was very petty of you to hold a grudge for two years, only for missing a date,” she said, reverting to the least heinous of her crimes. “You might have given me a chance to explain.”

  “Was there an explanation?”

  “Of course there was! I had to bring you to heel, to have you eating out of my hand like the others.”

  “Let it be well understood, dear Aphrodite, I do not mean to eat of your fingers like the others. I am not a tame squirrel. I want no servility from you, nor will I give any. You will behave more or less as a lady should, and if—when you run amok, I wish to be the first to hear of it. It will not be necessary for you to tuck any more lace doilies down the front of your gowns, and in fact I had hoped to see that green outfit tonight. Why didn’t you wear it? Afraid Ellingwood would disapprove?”

  “Oh, dear! What is to be done about Ellingwood? I have as well as said I will have him, to show you a lesson.”

  “Not to worry. I convinced him you are beyond his poor powers of handling. He was mighty relieved I had managed to escape him all day, I can tell you. You never saw such a frightened hare when I told him he might have to challenge Romeo to a duel.”

  “Oh, he knows about the kidnapping, then.”

  “Not at all, he thinks it was a dash to Gretna Green.”

  “I hope he hasn’t told anyone. What story has your sister told at the ball?”

  “You are ill.”

  “If we hurry, we might be back in time for the last dance.”

  “Long before it, but do you think you will look your best in polka dots?”

  “Ah, my measles! I feel so much better now that the spots have blossomed that I forgot all about them. Romeo didn’t much care for them, did he?” she asked, and laughed softly.

  “Romeo is an inveterate fool. And so have I been. I still am, wasting this precious opportunity. Evening star, I want to kiss you.”

  “You’ll have to ask my guardian, Lord Clivedon,” she informed him in a prissy manner.

  “Call me Laurence,” he said, reaching out for her in the darkness.

  “Clivedon!” she repeated in a louder voice. “Don’t touch me. I've got the measles.”

  “I noticed. And you will call me Laurence, or I shall wring your beautiful neck, as I have been wanting to all these days,” he said, putting his hands around her neck and tilting her chin towards him. “To hear you speak of that Greek puppy as ‘fascinating,’ and to see you planning to marry Ellingwood when you knew—”

  “No, I was not at all sure!”

  “Liar,” he mumbled in a caressing voice. “You have known ever since you stood me up two years ago.”

  “I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t.”

  “This is what would have happened, before the day was out, Aphrodite,” he murmured in her ear. Then he lowered his head and kissed her gently on the lips, a warm, tender embrace. “But, as two years have passed since then, and you are a confirmed jezebel, this is what will happen now,” he added ominously. He attacked her much more vigorously, with a ruthless embrace that left her breathless.

  “Babe. Oh Babe,” he said in an unsteady voice. “I have been ten times a fool. Get rid of those spots at once, you hear? I’m going to marry you before you fall into any more scrapes.”

  “I wish I could be rid of them. So lowering to have the measles at my age. But really, I feel fine, Laurence.”

  “Only fine? You should be feeling ecstatic, like me. Am I slipping?” he apologized, and kissed her again. “Better?”

  “Much better! That was Homeric, or do I mean Herculean?”

  “Damn your eyes, you’re thinking of that Greek at a time like this.”

  “I was only thinking how glad I am to be rid of him. He hated the Cotswolds, you know. Can you imagine anyone hating those hills? And I was thinking too, maybe we could go there for our honeymoon.”

  “Persuade me,” he suggested, and showed her the best manner of doing so.

  * * * *

  Lady Withers’ hysteria was reaching an uncontrollable height by midnight, when her company was going in to dinner. She actually emitted a shriek—so tactless—when she was called to go abovestairs by her butler. She was assured as soon as she was in the privacy of the hallway that the sight awaiting her there was pleasant, however, and had settled down to babbling incoherency by the time she reached Barbara’s chamber. “You have found her, thank God. I pictured a runaway match with Gentz, or a fatal accident. Oh my dear, you are all covered in spots!”

  “You noticed that, did you?” Laurence asked. “At least we have got our excuse for Babe’s missing her party tailor-made for us. Now we can announce the precise nature of her illness. Is she still ill, by the by?”

  “Yes, and that pesky Lady Angela has asked a dozen times to be allowed to see her, just for a moment. She suspects, of course . . .”

  “Excellent! Let her come,” Clivedon declared. “She’ll put an ad in the paper for us, and the world will know what happened.”

  “I hope she catches them from me,” Babe said, and gurgled happily at the thought.

  “Better slip into a dressing gown first, Babe,” Lady Withers suggested. “Oh, my dear! What did I call you? I beg your pardon, Barbara. It is my poor head . . . Clivedon, you can’t be here when Lady Angela comes up. You might just come into the ballroom and make an appearance, for the looks of it. With the two of you gone, you know, it looks so very odd. It has even been suggested the two of you were together. Lady Angela, I think, mentioned it . . .”

  “The trouble is, I may be coming down with the measles myself,” he objected.

  “What, are you ill, too?” Agnes asked.

  “I feel strangely light-headed,” he lied happily.

  “You both caught them from Boo, of course. I hope I am not next.”

  “I have been out of commission all day, you recall, so my absence will surprise no one,” Laurence said. “I’ll just hide in the closet till Angela leaves. Bring us some champagne, will you, Sis?”

  Barbara threw a dressing gown over her gown to hide it from Lady Angela, and closed the door of the closet on her room. She reclined gracefully on a chaise longue, and soon had the exquisite pleasure of seeing Lady Angela start back in fright and beat a hasty retreat from the room. She fea
red she had not got close enough for contamination, but resisted the impulse to go after her.

  There were several who had no heart for staying in a house cursed with measles, but plenty of others who were willing to take the risk. The Ladies Anstrom and Nathorn and their nephew were amongst those who elected to leave. “Did you find her?” Ellingwood asked in a quiet aside on his way to the door.

  “Yes, Clivedon got her back. She is abovestairs this minute.”

  “Wasn’t sure Lady Angela wasn’t in on the cover-up,” he said, nodding in a commiserating way. “Where had the girl got to, anyway?”

  “She had wandered into the garden, feeling warm, you know,” Lady Withers explained. He looked at her, disbelief written all over him.

  “I see,” he said, and nipped smartly forward to hold the door for his wealthy aunts, who had no opinion of a lady who would be ill for her own ball.

  Abovestairs, Clivedon opened the door onto the balcony that graced Lady Barbara’s room and took the champagne out to it. He lit a cigar as he looked out on to the street. “The little party is breaking up,” he pointed out, as several carriages were being brought around to the house front.

  “Laurence—look—there is Mrs. Harkness getting into Balfour’s carriage. They are having an affair; I knew it.”

  “Lucky dogs,” he replied, pulling her to his side to kiss her ear.

  “No one ever talks about her. I don’t know why they all pick on me.”

  “Jealous as green cows, every one of them,” he assured her.

  “I think there was some jealousy in it,” she answered.

  “Certainly there was, and there will be a good deal more when they read tomorrow that you have captured me.”

  “Should we announce it so soon? I mean, after Ellingwood . . .”

  “To hell with Ellingwood,” he answered, and setting aside their two glasses, he pulled her into his arms. Looking over the railing towards the street, she exclaimed, “There is Lady—”