by M C Beaton
“That’s quick!” said Harvey, sitting up. “You must have been very sure of her reply.”
“She was—rightly—sure of my proposal since I spoke to her father yesterday. Miss Sampson inserted the notice herself.”
Both friends looked startled but good breeding forbade them from commenting on Miss Sampson’s forward behavior.
Nonetheless Toby sensed their disapproval. “Miss Sampson is a very practical girl.”
Alistair gave a noncommittal grunt. “I might try my luck with the new heiress,” he said gloomily. “She’s a widow so maybe she’s not too fussy in men’s looks.” He tugged at his waistcoat which was riding uncomfortably up round the rolls of fat at his middle.
“Which new heiress?” demanded Toby. He was beginning to feel at ease with the world again. After what he had gone through at Murr Castle, it was natural that the sight of a beautiful redhead should upset him. It had not been she, of course. His imagination had played a trick.
“The Countess of Murr,” said Alistair. “Didn’t you know that family? As I ’member you went off to visit them that terrible winter and nearly killed yourself. You never did say what made you leave in such weather.”
“I had outstayed my welcome.” said Toby coldly, despite the racing of his pulses.
“Like that, was it?” said Harvey, writhing his long limbs in their skin tight pantaloons into more comfortable position. “Not hospitable, eh.”
“I do not like the Scotch,” said Lord Toby repressively.
“Come, now,” pursued Harvey. “The Old Prejudice is pretty much gone. But if that’s the way you feel, you’ll be the only man in London in no danger of losing your heart.”
“This countess will be at Almack’s this evening for the opening ball, no doubt?” said Lord Toby, studying the polish on the toe caps of his boots with great interest.
“Not she,” said Harvey. “She don’t go out in society. All she cares about is that son of hers. Her courtiers are busy chasing her to Westminster Abbey and the Tower and Exeter ’Change. Young Lord Rotherwood stole a march on the rest of us by arranging a private tour of Madame Tussaud’s.”
“Us?” queried Toby, raising thin black brows. “Us, Harvey? Never say you have joined the pursuit of the Scottish widow.”
Harvey looked so embarrassed and wiggled his limbs so frantically it seemed as if he were in danger of tying himself into a knot. “Can’t remain a bachelor all m’days,” he mumbled.
“How did her husband die?” asked Lord Toby.
“Great scandal evidently. He was much older than she… oh, forgot—you know the family. Well, he was making merry with a village maiden in the freezing rain and in an open field. Too much for him. Hadn’t been a well man and it finished him.”
“Would finish me,” said Toby, affecting a boredom he did not feel. “Let us change the subject. Since my taste in amusements has long left the nursery, I am not likely to meet the countess.”
“I really do not feel I am right in going,” said Morag to her lady’s maid, Scott, who was fastening the cross-tapes of Morag’s chemise.
“It’s an honor to receive vouchers for Almack’s,” said the maid in her prim, cultivated English accent in which slight traces of Scotch still peeped through like sprigs of heather on a rocky Highland escarpment. “Rory will do very well with Miss Simpson.”
Morag sighed. She longed to go to Almack’s Assembly Rooms. What female did not? In 1765 a Scotsman called William Macall reversed the syllables of his name to provide a more interesting title for his new assembly rooms, which became the most fashionable in London.
Now in this year of 1814, the rooms were ruled over by despotic patronesses whose word was law. To be seen at Almack’s was to be an “Exclusive.” To be refused vouchers labeled you a “Nobody.”… and no Brahmin can shrink with more horror from all contact with a Pariah than an “Exclusive” from intercourse with a “Nobody.” But there was Rory and there was Miss Simpson.
Miss Simpson had primly said she would, of course, be delighted to take care of Rory, and Rory had urged Morag to attend the ball. But Rory had been trying to hide a sort of wild glee and Miss Simpson seemed consumed by a slow-burning anger. Miss Simpson was too old to care for a clever high-spirited child like Rory, thought Morag unfairly.
Now that Morag was actually in London, her old dreams of Lord Toby had faded to the back of her mind. There were so many attractive young men to help her into her carriage and to send her flowers. She had been so young and inexperienced all those years ago.
He might be at the ball tonight, nagged a voice in her brain, but she shrugged it away. There could be no comparison between that trembling green girl of the days of Edinburgh and the present dashing and sophisticated Countess of Murr.
Lord Freddie Rotherwood was the lucky gallant chosen to escort Morag to Almack’s. He was sitting nervously in the drawing room of Morag’s London home accompanied by Rory and Miss Simpson. The town house was of handsome proportions and had been decorated by the countess in the first stare. Various wild and kilted ancestors of the Murrs stared down at the elegant backless sofas, spindly chairs, and oriental rugs. A whole herd of stuffed trophies of the chase had been banished to the cellars where they loomed among the wine racks, their glass eyes never failing to give Hamish a shiver when he went down to choose the wine for dinner.
Lord Freddie sipped his claret appreciatively. He could not remember having tasted such a good wine. It is probable he had not. Many English aristocrats were unaware that their wine merchants fortified French wines with a great deal of brandy and some even slapped French labels on their own concoctions, one wine merchant having been found making and bottling Chateau Lafitte, vintage yesterday, on his own premises.
The late earl’s wines had been imported directly from France and laid down long before the start of the wars.
Rory sat primly in the glory of dark blue velvet trousers buttoning onto a frilly blouse and eyed Miss Simpson from under his long lashes. He wanted her out of the room.
“Miss Simpson,” he said finally. “I am desirous of a glass of water.”
“Then ring the bell,” snapped Miss Simpson.
“I want you to get it,” said Rory mulishly. “You are supposed to be looking after me.”
Miss Simpson rose wearily to her feet. She knew from experience that if she did not get it, Rory would retaliate by insulting her with cruel and personal remarks—if, as in the present case, his mother were absent.
Rory waited until she had closed the door behind her and turned his beautiful eyes on Lord Freddie. Lord Freddie was an engaging-looking young man, younger than Morag by two years. He had rosy cheeks and merry gray eyes and a good figure, although it was too sturdy to be fashionable.
“What have you brought me, my lord?” demanded Rory.
“Eh! What have I brought you?” repeated Freddie with an indulgent laugh. “Why, nothing, my little man.”
“Then,” said Rory icily, “it is high time you did.”
Freddie stared at the boy in amazement. Only a bare minute ago, an angelic child had been facing him. Now he was confronted by a cunning dwarf with hard, calculating eyes. “Why should I bring you anything?” he demanded. “It ain’t Christmas. It ain’t your birthday.”
“You are stupid,” said Rory flatly. “My mother will not go with you if I take you in dislike.”
“Why… why…” spluttered Freddie, “I have a good mind to put you over my knee.”
Rory opened his cherubic mouth and then closed it quickly. Morag came into the room, and for the moment Freddie forgot everything else. She was wearing a tunic dress of white muslin edged with a gold border of Greek key design over a heavy white silk slip. Her red curls were dressed à la victime, and, as she moved toward him, he caught a breath of faint yet elusive perfume. She was a goddess, she was magnificent, she…
He was brought back from the groves of Arcadia with a bang.
“Mama,” said Rory. “My head feels so hot and heavy.
”
Morag, who had stretched out her hand in greeting to the enraptured Lord Freddie, dropped it and rushed to Rory’s side. “But you were very well not so long ago, my darling,” she cried, kneeling down beside him and wrapping her arms around him. Rory stared steadily over her shoulder at Lord Freddie. “I don’t know,” he whined. “I suddenly feel so ill and weak. You must not leave me, mama.”
“I should not dream of it, my precious lamb,” cried Morag. “Lord Rotherwood will forgive me. Does your chest hurt?”
Lord Freddie took a shilling from his pocket and tossed it up and down. Rory looked at it with infinite contempt and said on a choked sob, “I-I ache so, mama. All over.”
Lord Freddie sighed and took a guinea from his pocket and held it up. Morag still had her back to him and her arms round Rory. Rory rested his pointed chin on her white shoulder and gave Lord Freddie a brief nod.
“I ache nowhere, mama!” he cried with an enchanting, rippling laugh. “I was only funning and you believed me!”
Morag released him and gave him a mock slap on the bottom. “Is he not a scamp?” she cried, turning a glowing face to Lord Freddie. “You must not tease me so, Rory.”
“I am sorry,” said Rory with true contrition, for he hated to upset her in any way and it was all the fault of that fool Rotherwood being so slow on the uptake. Miss Simpson came in bearing the glass of water. “Why are you always bringing me glasses of water, Miss Simpson?” cried Rory merrily. “I declare, mama, she thinks I am a whale!”
Miss Simpson put the glass down on a side table and compressed her lips. She had long ago learned it was foolish to point out to Morag that her son was a malicious liar. Rory had all the weapons, all the answers. For a brief moment, the eyes of the old governess and the young lord met in complete understanding.
Then, “Go, mama, or you will be late,” urged Rory. “May I shake your hand, Lord Rotherwood?”
“By all means,” said Lord Freddie gloomily as Rory palmed the guinea from his hand. “By all means.”
Morag sat in the carriage in a fever of anticipation. This was to be the most elegant evening of her life. No crudity or vulgarity surely marred the hallowed halls of Almack’s. She saw the whole thing in her mind’s eye as some kind of celestial minuet.
No one had warned her of the circus outside Almack’s.
There was an enormous press of carriages, fighting and jostling for space, urged on by their screaming passengers, frantic to a woman in case they did not gain entry to this social heaven.
Foolhardy coachmen would espy a small gap in the press and would drive both carriages and horses full tilt into the gap. The air was loud with the swearing of coachmen and grooms, shrieks from the ladies, and splintering wood. A cabriolet drove its shafts straight through the window of the coach next to Morag’s.
“Is it always like this?” she gasped to her companion.
“Oh, always,” replied Lord Freddie. “I mean, it isn’t a fashionable event if you don’t have to go through this, don’t you see.”
Morag’s coachman, perched on his box, became impatient with the press and frightened for the safety of his horses. He let out a wild Highland battle cry which froze the struggling mass for a minute—long enough for him to see a sizable gap and drive his carriage in.
“Good work, Jimmy,” called Morag and the coachman touched his cocked hat and grinned down at her. “I hope I get us back oot o’ this mess, my leddy,” he called. “Did ye ever see the like? Whitna clamjamfrey. But you go and enjoy yersel, my leddy.”
Morag laughed and waved her hand. Lord Freddie stared at her in surprise. “Are your servants usually so familiar?” he asked.
“They are not familiar in the least,” said Morag in chilly accents. “They merely display a native independence of character combined with genuine concern for my happiness.”
“Sorry,” mumbled Lord Freddie, privately thinking that his Highland rose was indeed set about with thorns in the shape of one impossible brat and an army of cheeky retainers.
Almack’s was not so magnificent as Morag had expected. She had once been to one of the assemblies in Perth which had been held in an inn. It had been an infinitely more elegant setting than the one which now faced her. The ballroom was large and bare with a bad floor. Ropes were hung round it to divide the dancers from the audience of chaperones and wallflowers. Three equally bare rooms led off the ballroom where dry and tasteless refreshments were served.
But the magnificence of the guests more than made up for these defects and the lighting and the music were good.
Morag was quickly surrounded by men, vying to partner her in the dances. As the evening wore on, she began to relax. Lord Toby would not come, of course. Not that she cared, but it would be interesting to see if he looked the same. Nothing more.
She was pirouetting gracefully under Lord Freddie’s arm when she became aware of an old feeling of apprehension and unease.
Despite herself, her eyes were drawn to a corner of the room. Lord Toby stood there, staring straight across at her, those eyes, as green as she remembered, burning in his white face. He has changed, she thought breathlessly, tearing her eyes away. So much more elegant, so much more handsome, so much colder and harder.
“Dyed, of course,” commented the calm voice of his fiancée at his elbow.
Lord Toby glanced down at Miss Sampson in some surprise. His Henrietta was not being spiteful, of course, merely making one of her practical observations.
“Do you refer to the Countess of Murr?” he asked.
“If that is she,” said Henrietta, “the female with the impossible colored hair.”
“I assure you it is not dyed,” said Lord Toby. “I met the lady and her husband some seven years ago when I was touring Scotland. It is a dramatic color, I admit, but quite usual in the Highlands of Scotland.”
“Poor girl! How unfortunate!” said Henrietta, with a complacent pat at her brown curls. “But then she is newly come to town and will learn that dark beauties are the fashion. She is quite mature of course and perhaps I should advise her to wear caps.”
“As I remember, she is some two years older than you, Miss Sampson,” said Lord Toby with some asperity.
“Really!” Henrietta fanned herself languidly. “It must be the rigors of the climate.”
Lord Toby looked back at Morag. Her figure was now full-breasted and mature. She moved with an ethereal grace, and more than one man stared at her hungrily.
He was suddenly angry that she could laugh and dance with such seeming unconcern. She had seen him, after all. Surely she remembered him. Well, he was not likely to find out. He knew she was probably already bespoke for every dance. An elderly gentleman came to claim Henrietta’s hand for the cotillion and left him free to go in search of his friends.
He found the Honorable Alistair in a secluded corner clutching one puffy ankle, his chubby face rather white.
“Wrenched it,” said Alistair gloomily. “And I am supposed to dance the waltz with the beautiful countess. Could you find Harvey for me? I would ask you to take my place but you’ve got that cursed prejudice against the Scottish race.”
“I shall take your place,” said Lord Toby and turned away abruptly, leaving Alistair with his mouth open.
Morag was promenading round the ballroom with Lord Freddie in an interval between dances. Neil Gow and his fiddlers struck the opening bars of the waltz and Morag curtsied to Lord Freddie and turned to look for the Honorable Alistair. She gave a little gasp as she found the green eyes of Lord Toby Freemantle glinting down at her.
“Mr. Tillary…?” she said in an almost pleading voice.
“He has twisted his ankle,” replied Lord Toby, “and has begged me to replace him.”
Morag moved wordlessly into his arms. Lord Toby looked bitterly down at the top of her glowing curls as he whirled her round in the steps of the waltz. She had no right to look so enchanting. He wanted to shake her. To shout at her. To demand an explanation.
&nb
sp; “Why?” came a soft whisper from his partner.
He stumbled slightly with surprise and looked coldly down into her blue eyes. “Why, what?” he demanded rudely.
“Why did you leave without saying good-bye?”
Toby stared at her. He was tempted to snap that he hadn’t the faintest idea what she was talking about. Instead he said, “Do not remind me of the follies of my youth, madam. I have since learned that to attempt to seduce another man’s wife—however willing she may be—is pretty bad sport.”
Morag stopped abruptly, face aflame. “There are more ways of abusing hospitality than you think, my lord,” she said in a low voice. “Breaking hearts is one of them.” She turned on her heel and left him standing in the middle of the floor. He was unaware for a few moments of the staring, curious faces. “Breaking hearts.” What had she meant? She could not possibly mean…
His heart beat hard and fast and he felt a suffocating lump in his throat. He must follow her and ask her. He started across the ballroom in her direction, unaware that he had just received one of the biggest set-downs that Almack’s had ever seen.
But before he could reach Morag’s side, his fiancée was at his elbow, her eyes snapping with curiosity.
“What a monstrous thing to do!” she exclaimed. “What mauvais ton. And to cut you in Almack’s of all places. How dare she!”
For the first time, Lord Toby became aware of a circle of staring curious eyes. “I said something unforgivable to Lady Murr,” he said in a clear, carrying voice. “I shall call on her tomorrow to apologize.”
There was a little sigh of disappointment from his listeners. It was a storm in a teacup, that was all.
“How noble of you! How brave!” cried Henrietta. “To take the blame when all the world and his wife knows my lady is a trifle farouche.”
Lord Toby pulled her angrily away from their audience and did not open his mouth until he had found a quiet corner.
“Don’t be so vulgarly jealous,” he said icily.
Henrietta stared at him in amazement. Never had he used such a tone of voice to her. Others, yes, for he was famous for his set-downs. She opened her mouth to say something cutting but decided at the last moment to change her tactics and burst into tears instead.
