by Joan Smith
He cast a quick glance around the room as he sipped his drink, and discovered Wanda on a settee, conveniently apart from the rest of the family. After making his bows to everyone, he strolled to her side and sat down.
She had her hair dressed à la Meduse, with a riot of soft curls setting off her exquisite face to advantage. A pink gown in the Empire style covered without quite concealing her corporeal charms. She looked so striking that for a full minute Clay forgot to compare her to the Golden Rose, and when he did remember, the comparison was all in favor of the lady present. When he had taken in the full grandeur at her toilette, he said, “You are looking particularly lovely this evening. Miss Wanda, if I may say so.”
“As to that,” she said archly, “I fear developments in London have given you a dislike of fair-haired girls.” She had that afternoon read in the Gazette, which they received late from London, of the engagement between the Duke of Everleigh and Miss Gloria Golden. She was both miffed and happy. The Rose’s betrothal meant that Claymore was definitely free, yet it took the edge off her own success. She was second choice, and being sought out on the rebound, too, as it were.
“I am afraid I don’t understand you, Miss Wanda,” he said obtusely, being only too sure that he understood her perfectly.
He was shortly made to understand, with coy glances and bold smiles, that Miss Wanda was not seven years old, and knew why he was rusticating. Without a doubt she would shortly know as well that he had actually offered for the Rose, as soon as Lady Siderow or Lady Tameson had time to take pen in hand. He must work quickly and gain her acceptance before that event took place.
“Is the engagement finally announced then?” he asked smoothly. “I have known of it for some time, for the Rose was a good friend of my family.”
“A very good friend of one member of your family, if I am not mistaken, my lord?” she teased.
“A very good friend of Mama’s,” he returned, without so much as a blush at his mendacity. His mama had not set a toe in London during the last Season, and had never clapped an eye on the Rose.
Across the room, Ellie regarded this rencontre going forward in a corner. Wanda, the cunning creature, had sat off there by herself on purpose, just to get Clay away from the others. She was flirting outrageously—look at the way she was batting her lashes and simpering. Ellie felt a pronounced desire to go over and shake her. Why, she was all but engaged to George Hibbard, and had begged Mama not to invite him this evening, too. She was setting her cap for Claymore, that was the thing. Yes, and would very likely nab him.
The worm of discontent in Ellie’s breast was not entirely caused by Wanda’s shabby treatment of George Hibbard. How lovely Wanda looked, with her hair all curled and teased, and that little pink bow perched over her left ear. If only one had not to endure such bother from the papers to get those bouncing curls, Ellie thought she would like to try the style herself. Her hair was, as usual, pulled back from her forehead and tumbling down behind her in a basket of curls. It was very effective from the rear, but after all, it was the front of the head a gentleman saw when he was flirting.
Wanda may say what she liked about Claymore’s being jilted by the Rose, he did not act in the least like a brokenhearted gentleman. Quite the contrary, he was already ensnared in Wanda’s net. How warm his smile was for her, not in the least like the stiff little smirk he had honored herself with the day before. No indeed, it was the smile he had worn the first night, when he had offered for her in the moonlight, balanced on a ladder. Drunk as a wheelbarrow, of course, and not in the least aware of what he was saying. Still not aware that he had ever said it. But he was not drunk now.
The group went in for dinner, with Wanda latching onto Claymore’s arm, when he had ought to have taken in Mama. There, Papa and Abel were taking in her mother, one on either side, which left Rex for herself. Homberly entertained Ellie during dinner with comments on Clay’s ardor for Wanda. He hardly needed to tell her, for she could see perfectly well across the table that he was enchanted with her. It was always the same, any time a new gentleman came to call. He would end up with Wanda, that same glowing smile on his face that Claymore was wearing. It was very lowering to be a common variety of flower among Adam’s exotic blooms.
In fact, Clay’s enchantment did not last through the neck of venison. There were only so many witty remarks she could make about Roses having thorns, and a limited number of compliments he could devise on sapphire eyes and raven curls. Both were exhausted during the turtle soup.
They had very few friends in common, and the news that Claymore was acquainted with Ladies Siderow and Tameson and liked them tremendously did not take long to impart. Was over well before the turbot and smelts were even served. He already knew she adored Byron, though he heard it again during the neck of venison. By the time the sweet was before him, he was looking around the table for a fresh topic. His eyes lit on Ellie, who sat directly opposite him. She was imparting to Rex the information that her great-great-uncle Horace had been secretly betrothed to his great-great-aunt Cybil, only the families did not allow the match, because Cybil had been mistress to some prince or other. He thought Rex did very poorly to reply only, “Pooh, no such a thing.” He could have done with some of that conversation Ellie exhibited, and regretted it was impolite to speak across the table.
“Well, it’s true, and she was very pretty, too. I found a little ivory miniature of her amongst Uncle Horace’s papers, which I was going through last night She looked rather like Missie. Perhaps you would like to have the picture for Missie? Papa would not mind, I think.”
“What for? She’s dead, ain’t she?”
“Of course she is dead. She was born in 1700.”
Clay could not speak across the table, but at least he could listen, and find fresh fruit for talk with his partner. “Your family is a very old one, I believe,” he ventured to Wanda.
“Oh no,” she replied, offended. “Lady Siderow is only thirty. She is the oldest, and Lady Tameson is just turned twenty-eight”
He stared at her ignorance, and said, “I see.” Still one could not give up this easily, and he forged on. “I understand you and Miss Ellie are twins.”
“She is the elder.”
A situation that had been puzzling him was called to mind, and he inquired, “Why was she not presented this year?”
“Ellie is rather immature. Joan—Lady Siderow, that is—thought she would improve with a year’s aging.”
“I see.” Yet a second glance across the table assured him that she did not look immature. With her hair pulled back severely in that old-fashioned style, the lovely contours of her face, which had been concealed yesterday by her straw hat and disheveled locks, were accentuated. The eyes were magnificent—great stormy pools, with lashes a yard long. “Was she content to remain behind and let her younger sister go off before her?” he said lightly.
Wanda hunched her entrancing shoulders, not in the least amused by this interest in anyone save herself. “Oh, Ellie is the shy one of the family. She was happy enough to stay home. To tell the truth, I don’t think she wanted to take her bows with me.”
“Why not?” Clay asked, giving his dinner companion a very poor opinion of his common sense. It must be obvious to the meanest capacity that Ellie would show to great disadvantage beside herself. In about two seconds he caught the full import of her remark, and said, “It would have been something quite out of the ordinary to have two such beautiful sisters make their bows together.”
He laid down his fork and looked frankly at Wanda to see how she would take this lack of praise.
She took it very ill indeed, but was too cagey to show it. “I can’t imagine what the reason could be,” she replied sweetly.
Glancing across the table again, Clay could see no trace of this vaunted shyness of Miss Ellie’s. She was making valiant efforts to draw that uncouth lout of a Rex into conversation. Truth to tell, she had been catapulted into animation by the awareness of those penetrating brown ey
es trained on her.
“Useless things,” Rex was saying. The first part of the conversation was missed by the eavesdropper.
“They are not useless, for besides being very pretty, orchids give us the vanilla flavoring. In fact, you are eating it right now, in this cream cake.”
“That so?” Rex asked. “Well, I do like vanilla.”
Even a four-course meal is over eventually, and at last the ladies went into the drawing room, and the port was served to the gentlemen, who remained behind at table to have a cigar.
Adam Wanderley’s mind was never far from his greenhouse. “I was thinking whether I couldn’t grow my own tobacco plants in my conservatory and make up my own cigars,” he commented, as he lit up a cheroot and blew a puff of smoke. He was a big, homely man, an unlikely sire to the Wanderley beauties.
“West Indies,” Abel replied. “The best tobacco for cigars comes from Cuba, Papa.” He had his father’s form, with some saving refinement of features from his mother.
“I know that. These are Cuban cigars we’re smoking. I’ll look into it.”
“Don’t know where you’ll put the plants. The place is jam-packed already. They’re big plants.”
“I’m planning to expand,” Papa told his son.
“What are you planning to use for blunt? Mama says she’s getting new curtains for the three drawing rooms out of this year’s revenues, or she’s moving out. And there’ll be Wanda’s wedding—” A sharp rap in the ribs from Rex’s elbow brought Abel to a halt. He looked guiltily at Claymore, and mumbled on, “Not that there’s anything definite about Wanda.”
“Aye, but look at the saving on cigars,” Adam continued, unaware of the little scene.
“They’d end up costing you a guinea a piece the first year,” Abel said, and they continued discussing the feasibility of the scheme for half an hour, when the gentlemen removed to the Green Saloon with the tatty curtains. Wanda was soon prevailed upon to take a turn at the pianoforte, while Abel sang “Green Grow the Rushes, Ho” in a creditable baritone. This was followed by “Blowzy Bella” and other country songs. During the “Fleuve du Tage” Ellie rose and slipped silently from the room, unobserved by anyone except Rex. Looking around a little later, though, Claymore remarked upon her absence to his friend.
“Ellie always slips out when the going gets rough. She’s heard Wanda strum them tunes a hundred times. Always plays the same things. Heard them a score of times myself.”
“Where does she slip out to?”
“Library. She’s working up the family history. Well, stands to reason, if she don’t do it, it won’t get done, for Adam has his head full of his plants, and the mama ain’t literary at an.”
Before long, Adam as well headed for the door, and went to check up on his cattleya, which was showing a sad tendency to wilt, and he had paid two hundred pounds for it not a month ago. A table of piquet was got up, with Abel the odd man out. After half an hour it was suggested that Abel sit in, and Claymore was the first to offer to give up his seat, which irked Rex, who was desirous of slipping out to blow a cloud himself. Dead bore, playing for these chicken stakes.
Wanda had every expectation that Claymore would take up a seat where he might admire her beauty without the diversion of playing cards. Indeed he did so, for three full minutes, before he said offhandedly that he believed he would stroll across to the library and pick out a book.
Entering the library, a large square room lined with oaken bookshelves, and with two large tables placed end to end in the middle of the room, he noticed it was well lit, but apparently unoccupied. Books and writing materials were laid out on one of the tables, but no one was about to use them. He strolled in and looked around. Then he heard a scrabbling sound behind him, and turning, he saw Ellie balanced on a short ladder, reaching above her head for a book.
“Allow me, Miss Ellie,” he said, and rushed to her aid.
“Oh, you scared the life out of me,” she said bluntly. “I didn’t hear you come in, for since Mama has had this carpet laid, the room is nearly noiseproof.”
“You appear to have a well-stocked library,” Clay said, by way of making polite conversation.
“Yes, loads of books, but all as old as the hills. Papa has not kept it up as he ought to have.”
“I collect I will find the works of Byron here at least,” he said lightly. No lady of fashion dared to be behind in her reading of Byron. He already knew Wanda to be an aficionado.
“No, not even the illustrious Byron, I’m afraid,” she confessed.
“Ah, I thought Wanda said—”
“Very likely Joan has a copy. Lady Siderow, you know.”
“Very likely.” He carried the heavy tome to the table for her. “What is this weighty matter you are looking into?” he asked.
“Harold—Lord Tameson—told me I might find an account of his ancestors in here. It is Rutledge’s History of Dorset. That is where he is from.”
Clay dutifully volunteered the information that he was acquainted with both her married sisters, and liked them prodigiously. He waited for her “indeed” or “how delightful” or some such banality.
He was surprised to hear her say, “I like Joan and Bunny, but Harold is quite hopeless.”
“Who, Tameson?”
“Yes, he is so toplofty and boring.”
It was himself who said, “Indeed.”
“You cannot know him well, or you would not be surprised. No one likes him. None of us, I mean. Always prosing on about his ancestors, who are supposed to be something special only because he can trace them back to Norman and Saxon times. Well, it is very foolish. Everyone’s ancestors go back forever, back to Adam and Eve, and I don’t see that it ought to lend any extra cachet if they happened to be living in England, or if you can find them mentioned in some book. And it is not as though the family has distinguished itself in the least. They have gone downhill dreadfully, if you want my opinion.” He blinked in surprise, and she added, “But I don’t think you do want my opinion, and I hope he is not a great bosom-bow of yours.”
“Not in the least. Merely I am surprised to hear you profess such views, when it is yourself who are keeping up your own family history.”
“Well, I don’t enjoy it, except for the human side that comes out occasionally. All those lists of properties exchanged, and families connected, of court appointments and titles and battles engaged in is very dull stuff. But once in a while some item of interest comes up. A great-great-ancestor of mine—she was an Egerton, born in 1650, imagine only a few years after Shakespeare died— kept a diary, and I have enjoyed dipping into it immensely, for we have so few accounts of anything written by women at that time. You could not imagine, my lord, how she was treated. Her husband beat her, and locked her in her room. And indeed she never wished to marry him at all, for she loved another, but he was rich you see—the husband—and very likely her family forced the match on her. The night before her wedding she made a long entry. Oh, I must show it to you, all tear-stained, and the brown marks still there after all these years. Only it is in my room, and I shall show it to you another time, if you are interested.”
“I am. Interesting what you said—about so few women having written anything at that time, when it seems every woman of my acquaintance is scribbling her memoirs now.”
“The Countess of Winchilsea is the only female writer I have found, and then only the merest little dabs of verse. Now, of course, it is different, since we are educated. In a way that is, though of course we are not well educated, and I don’t know why we must spend hours practicing the harp or pianoforte when we have no aptitude for it, and had much rather be doing something else.”
“What would you rather be doing, Miss Ellie?”
“Nearly anything,” she replied. They sat down at the table, and Ellie closed the book in which she had been writing, then fell silent. Clay did not force conversation;
He was thinking about what she had said, and found a good deal of sense in it
“Is the card game over already?” she asked.
“No, they are still playing. I am taking a turn out.”
“Would you care for a glass of wine?”
“No, I am happy just as I am. That diary you mentioned—it sounds a valuable document, for students of social history.”
“Yes, I have been after Papa to give it to a university, or to see about having it published. Surely many women must feel as I do, that they would like to know something about life in those days, from a woman’s point of view. They cannot all have been greenheads, for Shakespeare portrays very active and vital women in his plays.”
“But not in his sonnets,” Clay mentioned. He was only familiar with these poems from using them as models for his own poetic offerings to Miss Golden.
“Yes, that is true,” she said consideringly. “He is always holding out the lure that if they become his lovers, he will immortalize them, otherwise they will sink into total obscurity. They must have been the silliest things in nature to fall for such a story.”
“This ancestor of yours, Egerton was it?” Clay asked, wishing to divert the topic, since his companion had obviously a more thorough acquaintance than he had himself with the sonnets of the Bard.
“Yes, Mary Egerton. She was in love with her neighbor; his name was Tom. She doesn’t describe him at all, only to say he is very kind. She spells it k-y-n-d-e. I don’t know whether she was a poor speller, or that was the spelling of it in those days. Spelling has changed greatly, of course. I can scarcely make any sense of Chaucer at all.”
