“Oh, yes, ma’am, I—”
“And you are such a pretty thing,” the lady continued, undisturbed. “How did you come to meet Domenic, my dear?”
“Why, ma’am, we were traveling—” Emily broke off. Began again. “We were, Jenny and I, we were traveling. To my Aunt Judith, in the north. Only we stopped at the inn for a collation—Domenic, I mean Mr. Teverley—must surely have told you of the inn, ma’am? And the landlady’s son had the measles, and we had to stay where we were for the longest time, so Jenny suggested that we might share a room—”
“But I thought that you were traveling together?” Lady Teeve questioned with a perplexed alr.
“Yes, ma’am, certainly we were. Only. Only, you see we had neither of us thought to have such a disaster fall upon us, and hadn’t the money to pay for separate lodgings for the entire term of a confinement of measles, and so we—yes, we shared rooms, and became better friends than we already were,” she completed with triumph.
“Ah yes, Domenic has spoken to me of the inn, but you know what dreadful tale-tellers boys are, my child. I had only the barest bones of the story, you see. Were there others at the place?” Lady Teeve examined her embroidery sharply.
“Only Mr. Teverley, and Mr. Peter Teverley, and a curate of the most dreadful, prosing sort, and A—That is, a very unpleasant young man who stayed foxed practically all the time that we remained there.” Emily felt uncomfortably near the truth, and wondered what question her hostess would next advance. But that lady, perhaps aware of her guest’s wariness, forbore to question further, and made a pleasant comment on Emily’s dress.
Emily, in that fashion, remained completely unaware of how much information she gave to her hostess during the course of three days.
Certainly Emily felt no complaint of her treatment by Lady Teeve or her lord. She did have many complaints, however, which she could voice only to herself, regarding Peter Teverley’s treatment of herself.
She had begged for, and received, his assurance that he did not blame her for Jenny’s accident. But she had received very little attention from him after that assurance. Domenic, Emily thought bitterly, was happy to spend an hour doing her errands. Sir John Brickerham was pleased, if a little amused, by her kittenish, pretty manners toward himself, and could be counted upon to say something gallant. Even Lord Teeve, whom she regarded as practically as old as mad King George, was kindness itself to her, and laughed at her only in the kindest fashion. It was only Teverley, whose cool amusement and casual treatment of her had once seemed brooding and romantic, who frustrated her beyond endurance. And so Emily decided to embark upon a course of desperate flirtation.
Deciding upon such a course and following it through are two different things, and Emily spent the better part of a night awake, trying to think of whom she might flirt with. Lord Teeve was immediately rejected as being too old, aside from being married. Domenic was, of course, too young, too callow, and too much a boy in her eyes to constitute any threat to a man of the world such as Teverley. Remained only Sir John. Emily would not have chosen him for her target had fortune offered her another, for she thought him a kindly bore and singularly uninteresting. But Brickerham, for lack of another, it was to be. And once set upon her course, Emily followed it with determination.
Sir John Brickerham was startled, to sat the least, to be joined the next morning by Emily Pellering at the breakfast table, and even more so when she solicited his company for a walk through the court garden. Miss Pellering claimed that the thought of snakes had kept her from exploring this pretty walk, and begged that Sir John accompany her, “for I should not be afraid with you, sir.” Brickerham was not a very analytical fellow, and although the question of what the minx was up to occurred to him, he did not bother to follow it through. He gave his consent, and she professed herself delighted, although privately she felt that the scene would have been better played had Teverley been there to witness it.
By dinnertime the flirtation was over. Sir John was perfectly willing to enjoy Miss Pellering’s company, to laugh at her witticisms, and to make witticisms of his own. Emily found that he was even, for such an ordinary man, rather good company. But he did not flirt with her, and the effect of their companionship seemed, to her, curiously flat. One of the Teverley men was reacting just as she might have hoped, certainly, but it was Dom, not his cousin; Peter Teverley had been gone from the house all that day on his uncle’s business, and all of Emily’s hard work, as she thought of it, was for naught. Dom looked unhappy with the turn of events, but Emily was beyond caring what her former hero felt, and was conscious of only the smallest glow of pleasure in the fact that Domenic glowered at Sir John through the first and, indeed, halfway through the second course of dinner.
Teverley remained unmoved.
It was, she thought later, the longest evening she had ever spent, chatting idly with Lady Teeve and the Misses Brickerham while Peter Teverley read Joseph Andrews, Lord Teeve and his son played backgammon, and even Sir John deserted her to wind wool for Miss Quare. As Emily neared the top of the stairs when she left the drawing room, she thought for a moment of going in to talk with Jenny. Fleetingly the thought was a comfort to her. Then the resentments of the past days returned. And something new, an idea planted by Lady Teeve, recalled itself. Absurd as it seemed, Domenic’s mother had hinted that Jenny had a tendre for Teverley herself. Even if it were true, Emily reasoned, it could only be viewed as pathetic, in view of Miss Prydd’s advancing age. But it was another block in her progress to Jenny’s door. And finally there was the suspicion that Jenny would calmly and soundly knock holes in all Emily’s carefully wrought schemes, and possibly even scold her for playing the coquette with Sir John. She decided against the visit. In fact, the more Emily considered her own behavior all through the week, and the more she dwelt upon her sulks and her flirtation, the less she wanted to talk to Jenny.
“After all,” she said to herself, resolutely passing Miss Prydd’s door despite the fact that candles still burnt within, “I needn’t go in to talk with Jenny if all she intends to do is scold me. I am far too old to be scolded in any case, and besides that, who is Jenny to preach to me?” A vision of Lady Teeve and Miss Quare occurred to her, and, as much as she disliked the companion, she found she liked the picture. That was how a dame de compagnie was supposed to act! With respect. Not talking her around when she had to do something. “And I must do something!” She said to her mirror. “If I only knew what!”
The rest she found that night was not peaceful.
o0o
When Miss Prydd was awakened the next morning, the day of the party, the sun was dancing in the curtains, the girl lighting her fire had an unusually sweet smile even for one who habitually smiled, and the sound of songbirds insinuated itself into her hearing. It was clearly too lovely a day to spend in bed.
“I defy the doctor! If I am well enough to attend the party this evening, I must be well enough to spend some part of the day below,” she cried to the maid, who smiled yet more broadly and, in dipping a curtsy, nearly unbalanced Miss Quare as she entered the room.
Miss Quare, when apprised of these new plans, at first was adamantly opposed. When, by dint of much argument, Miss Prydd drew from the companion an acknowledgment that she would not be in the way of preparations should she join the party—for the family was gathered in one of the small salons—Miss Quare still would only say, “I will ask my lady about it.”
Lady Teeve did not approve of Miss Prydd’s admission to company before the doctor’s permission was granted, but she did not forbid it either, only sniffing and calling it foolishness. So when some of the party had gathered in the rose-garden salon at the rear of the house, Jenny descended to join them, equipped with a shawl and a book.
At her entrance, Emily jumped up guiltily. “Had I known you were to come downstairs, I would have come to help you.”
“Nonsense, my dear Miss Pellering,” Lady Teeve cooed. “Your friend feels she is capable of joining
us, so she must find out how she fares for herself, mustn’t she? I do not believe in pampering invalids.”
“Nor do I, my lady,” Jenny agreed equably, and settled herself far from most of the others in a deep wing chair which would successfully hide her from drafts, and from all but the most persistent of her fellow creatures.
Seeing that Miss Prydd did not intend to make an interesting invalid of herself, Lady Teeve returned to her conversation with Miss Brickerham. Emily, rather desultorily sorting yarns and chatting with Sarah Brickerham, avoided looking toward Jenny, a fact that Jenny apprehended at once, but did not understand. Miss Quare, sullenly working over her tambour frame, ignored everyone in the room except her mistress. Lord Teeve, the only other member of the party present, was immersed in the sporting pages, and only emerged when his wife addressed a comment to him that could not be decently answered by a “Hummphr?” They sat so for an hour, until Sir John Brickerham and Peter Teverley entered the room, returned from errands in the village. They informed the company that Domenic had remained there, awaiting the arrival of three of his best friends from university who had been invited to the party. Having made their announcement, Sir John and Mr. Teverley immediately joined Miss Prydd to express their pleasure at her recovery; but when Sir John joined Lord Teeve for a discussion of the favored nags to run that year, Peter Teverley remained at Jenny’s side.
“If you stand here too long, your aunt is certain to think of an errand to do, and send you about it,” Jenny said at last, somewhat sardonically.
Teverley ignored her immediate look of contrition and answered her in kind. “But you see, my aunt is quietened by the presence of my uncle, and won’t dare dispatch me on any trumpery errand while he stays.” He settled himself comfortably in a chair nearby. “And should he leave, and my aunt demand my services, why, I shall respectfully inform her that my—my foot has gone to sleep, and I am entirely unable to move from the spot.” Jenny laughed. “There, I like that better. How do you do?”
“Quite well.” Jenny smiled brightly. “Oh, a little knocked up, still, but really quite the thing.”
“Fit to dance this evening?”
“I had not planned to do so—” she began uneasily.
“For the sake of your health?”
“Better say for the sake of my peace of mind.” Jenny glanced briefly at Lady Teeve. Teverley nodded.
“You needn’t worry over my aunt. I shall keep her in hand, and if I do not, rest assured that my uncle shall. She is not really so much to be feared.”
“Feared?” Jenny asked lightly. “Oh, not in the world. But I have a great respect for your aunt, Mr. Teverley.”
“And have you no respect for me, Prydd?” He smiled the particular smile that turned Jenny’s heart over.
“Yes, of course I do—” she began in confusion, aware that Lady Teeve had noticed their conversation at last.
“Peter, what are you discussing?” the lady asked.
“Joseph Andrews, Aunt,” he lied smilingly. And was spared the necessity of further explanation when Domenic entered the room, followed by three unexceptional-looking young men in the first stages of dandyism, with high shirt points, delicately colored pantaloons, and some of the most elaborate, if slightly grubby, cravats to grace the garden salon in a twelvemonth.
They were introduced as Mr. Willson (the reddish-haired fellow with the enormous sugarloaf hat); Mr. Keally (plump, with an agreeable smile); and Mr. Authernot, who was entirely unremarkable except that he rejoiced in the peculiar name of Froggie, although he could not have been said to resemble a frog in the least. The party became more animated as the young men made themselves agreeable to their hosts and set about wooing Emily and Joanna Brickerham, the prettiest girls in the room, from Lady Teeve’s chaperonage.
“Well, that will give Aunt Teeve something to think of “ Teverley smiled as his gaze met Miss Prydd’s. “She will be intent upon finding a wife for each of those unsuspecting puppies, and will quite forget that you are in the company.”
“I wish that might be so,” Jenny muttered, unconvinced. “She is as likely to remember that you were speaking to me when you might have been attending upon Miss Brickerham, and it will never occur to her to remember that I would have been entirely happy to sit in this chair and read. Or think. I begin to have the notion that I will not dance at your aunt’s party after all, Mr. Teverley.”
“I think you underestimate yourself, Prydd my dear. And I am quite sure that you underestimate me.”
“Mr. Teverley, I long ago realized that with you almost anything may be possible. But still I doubt that I will dance this evening.”
“Shall we let it wait until that time?” Teverley asked diplomatically.
“Certainly,” Jenny answered, with a calm almost equal to his.
Chapter Fifteen
By that evening the infectious cheer of the household had raised Jenny’s spirits to a point where she thought that, if someone did ask her, she would dance after all. Lord Teeve had downplayed the size of the party when talking with her that afternoon, declaring it “a few dozen families from nearby, for dancing and supper,” but for a modest country entertainment there had been a remarkable amount of scurrying and polishing belowstairs. It had been confided to Miss Prydd by the maid who brought her hot-water can and lit her fire that cook had been making sauces to dress the pastries and meats since dawn, and that the pastry chef had been assigned two helpers, put on for the day only to assist in removing things from the oven and arranging them upon platters. Jenny, impressed as she had been by the scope of Lady Teeve’s ordinary dinners, was appalled when she tried to imagine the feast that supper would be. Although she determined not to go down for dinner, in order to conserve her strength somewhat, she made a long toilette, humming as she did so, and permitted herself to think of enjoying the party inconspicuously.
Emily, her spirits raised again by the flattering interest of Dom’s three school friends, was looking forward to the party with the rude, boisterous enjoyment of a pretty young woman who expects—demands—that she will have a delightful time. Secure in the admiration of Mr. Willson, Mr. Keally, and Mr. Authernot, Emily told herself to forget Peter Teverley’s inattention, Miss Quare’s sniffs, and Jenny’s scolds. Jenny had not scolded her, had hardly had a complete exchange of words with her in three days, but Emily felt more comfortable forgetting about Jenny. By the time the guests were beginning to arrive she barely remembered to look in on her friend.
“Do you mean that I am ready before you are?” she cried in amazement.
“Why yes, love, I suppose so,” Miss Prydd said awkwardly, coiling her hair one way and then the other. “No matter what I do with it, you see? It only appears to advantage in the same old way. What can I do?” Jenny wore another of Lady Graybarr’s gifts to her, a deep blue silk over velvet, with a plain bodice and matching ribbons; all about her was complete but for her hair. Emily felt a moment’s remorse: poor Jenny, old and plain and poor (although she did look rather well in the new gown.)
“I know. I’ll get my girl to dress your hair.” Emily darted for the door and called for the maid. “Now, you do Miss Prydd’s hair just as she bids you,” she instructed. “Do you mind that I go downstairs without you, Jen? There are people come already, and I—”
“You are longing to begin the party. Run along, dear. I’ll find you when I’m ready.” Emily paused only long enough to observe herself once more before the glass, charming in primrose gauze and satin, then was gone, leaving Jenny under the hands of the maid to deal with her own nervousness about this particular party.
Emily was met at the bottom of the stairs by Sir John, who asked with the familiarity of an old beau if he might lead her into the dancing. She cast a quick look about for Teverley, but Teverley was not to be seen, so she graciously assented, “As soon as I make my curtsy to Lady Teeve.” Sir John offered his arm and they went to find their hostess.
“My dear, you look charming,” Lady Teeve assured her. “And
where is your friend?” She lingered delicately on the word friend, and the effect was not lost on Emily.
“She will be down in a few minutes, ma’am. I left her with my maid to do her hair.”
“How very generous of you, my dear. Now, run along. The dancing will begin in only a short while.” Emily, chattering to Sir John, took leave of her hostess.
Jenny followed Emily downstairs five minutes later, hair looped up, at last, in a compromise between her usual style and the grand coiffure à la grecque which she had worn to the opera. At the bottom of the stairs she controlled the impulse to bolt back up again, and as she cast about for Emily, Peter Teverley appeared.
“Now, Miss Prydd, will you dance with me?” he asked, bowing low over her hand.
“Why,” she thought for a moment, as unable to resist the temptation to dance with him as she was to think up a plausible excuse for not doing so, “yes, Mr. Teverley, I should like that very much. I should find your aunt first—”
“My aunt has surrounded herself with twenty of her closest friends, and is holding court near the card room. No,” he cautioned her as she looked about. “You are not to look for your charge, or for Domenic, either. You are to enjoy this party. You are to enjoy yourself.”
“Yes, sir.” She mocked his martial tone.
“Do you know, I believe you take that Gothic horror of a name too seriously, and that is the problem with you.” He led her out to the floor for the first set.
“I wasn’t aware that there was a problem with me,” she said crisply. “And if you mean Iphegenia, it is not a Gothic horror but a Greek one.”
“My profound apologies, my dearest Prydd! No, there is no problem with you, but merely a—a puzzlement.”
“Well, then, what is the puzzlement of my name? Aside from the fact that it is a perfectly horrendous one. “
“Your parents caught the rage for the classics, but did they ever tell you for whom you were named?”
My Dear Jenny Page 16
