by Joan Smith
By the time she had got a fresh hankie and transferred all her essential items to her yellow and green beaded reticule and descended the staircase, the party were all chomping at the bit to get going, and it was only the grandness of her getup that put Claymore back into good humor. Even that did not quite restore the others.
Clay’s curricle headed off first, and as his grays were fresh as rain it was not long before he put a few hundred yards between his carriage and his friend’s. Missie’s suggestion of a race appealed strongly to him, but he noticed that Wanda was already holding tightly to the edge of the seat, and not even trying to make conversation as it took all her efforts to just remain seated.
“Shall I slow down?” he asked.
“Oh no. Such fun! Very exhilarating to be jolting along at this rate. It makes me quite giddy with pleasure.” Clay smiled at her, and thought how the girl was traduced by her jealous detractors. She would have loved a race. But within a half-hour her giddy pleasure had given over to plain giddiness, and she had to beg him to slacken the pace, just a little, as her hands were quite cramped from holding on for dear life.
At their reduced speed it was not long before they were caught up by Rex and his party, and when Wanda risked a glance over her shoulder, she said, “Perhaps you had ought to slow down just a trifle more, and let them pass.” He did so, and the ladies in the other carriage had obviously great powers of balance, for their hands were free to wave merrily as they shot by.
“There is no great hurry, is there?” Wanda asked apologetically.
“Certainly not. The day is so fine, and the scenery so beautiful, that we shall just poke along at a nice slow trot and enjoy ourselves.”
Conversation was possible at the five miles an hour to which they were reduced, and Wanda undertook to amuse her driver by pointing out the various farms they passed, and mentioned the names of the owners, and something of their condition. After a few miles she said, “It is very hot, it is not?”
“You might take off your shawl,” Claymore pointed out.
“Oh no, my shoulders are freezing. It is only my face that is hot. It is that sun, beating right in my eyes. We ought to have remembered the sun would be in our eyes if we drove west in the afternoon. I hope I don’t become all splotched.” She bent her head, so that the rim of her bonnet might protect her from the sun’s blasts. Short of turning the carriage around and heading home, Claymore was at a loss as to how he might protect his precious charge from the elements.
“The sun will be behind us on the way home,” he said hopefully.
“We should have brought a closed carriage,” she replied. But she rallied after this exchange, just when he was sure she was going to sink into the sulks. She even raised her head from its bent position, and pointed out that the little farm there, rather falling apart, belonged to Tom Langdon. He had a daughter, Nora. A very nice girl. She further forgot herself so far as to crane her neck around after they were past, to determine whether Nora was about, and perhaps to determine as well whether she had a caller.
A little farther along, a fine home appeared, in the Tudor half-timber style, with a view of cultivated fields stretching behind it, and a large herd of cattle grazing in the pasture. “That’s a fine-looking place,” Clay said. “Who lives there?”
“That is Squire Hibbard’s place,” Wanda answered curtly, and volunteered no further comment. She showed an amazing lack of interest in it, and in fact never so much as glanced to the left as they passed. Clay waited for any more information she might have to impart, but her conversation was at an end. She was silent for the better part of the rest of the trip. The poking pace he was obliged to keep, coupled with his companion’s sullen silence, was putting Claymore into a bad humor.
This outing had been a mistake. With fashionable young beauties, the thing to do was entertain them with balls and routs and parties, where you didn’t have to endure long stretches of their company all alone. He considered that other beauty whose company he had recently been enjoying, and he observed with surprise that he had never been so long alone in her company as he was today with Miss Wanda. The whole affair had been an attempt to get her alone for a moment or two, for she was always surrounded by her court. Even the dullest rattle must appear gay with a dozen men offering her compliments. If she had nothing to say, it was hardly noticed, for she would be smiling, and batting her fan, and listening.
When they eventually reached Needford, it was not difficult to find the ancient church. It was the largest building in the village, yet not so large either, a squat stone affair, with Norman doorway and windows. Outside it, Rex’s curricle was being walked by a local urchin, stiff with dignity at the responsibility placed on his ragged shoulders. Another boy shot forward to claim the job of walking the newly arrived vehicle. Clay flipped him a coin for his trouble, and escorted his wilting companion inside. A cool dampness greeted them.
Wanda said in a dying voice, “I shall just sit here at the back and let you join the others. I have seen this old church a dozen times, and I am so tired.” Clay made offers to remain with her, but she insisted that he leave. She was determined to be alone, for she had private matters to consider. She had, unbeknownst to her escort, espied him walking along the street of the village. He was with Robert Langdon, Nora’s brother, which boded ill. What was George doing here, and why was he with Robert Langdon? It bespoke a friendliness with the family that she could not trust. He might have asked Abel to accompany him, if he wanted to come to Needford. He might have called for Robert—though actually he lived closer to the village—and if he had called for Robert, there was not a doubt in her mind that Nora had been present. It was now Thursday—five whole days that he had not called on her. He usually came every single day, rain or shine. It was not because she had befriended Elmer Rountree either, on Sunday after church. She had only done that because he had danced twice with Nora at the assembly on Saturday evening. He was tired of her, that was the thing. Well, she hoped he might see her on the arm of the Marquis of Claymore. She was very sorry she had turned her head away when she saw him coming. If she heard he was playing up to Nora Langdon, she would have the Marquis, so there.
Clay deserted his charge, feeling rather guilty about it, but determined to have at least a glimpse of the building after dragging all this way in the heat to see it. Silly not to do that much, and she said she wanted to be alone.
“Don’t seem right to me, a dog in church,” Rex was announcing, and the group were standing around a tomb where a martyr or crusader or some such old fellow was interred. Carved in stone on the tomb was a small pup, curled up at the man’s feet, his nose resting on his fore-paws, looking as natural as if he might wake up at any moment and wag his tail.
“I don’t see why not,” Ellie returned. “They are God’s creatures too, and I daresay He likes dogs and cats as well as the rest of us do.”
“Yes, but dash it, Ellie, not in church. It ain’t fitting.”
“It is only a statue,” Missie pointed out.
“They should at least put wings or a halo on it, to make it look a little holy.”
Ellie’s sense of humor overcame her at this proposal, and she gurgled, “Or give it a harp, and pretend it is an angel. You are too nonsensical for words, Rex.” Then she spotted Claymore, and asked, “Why, where is Wanda?”
“She is resting there at the back,” he indicated, with a toss of head.
“Resting again?” Missie teased. “It seemed to us that you two rested all the way here. We have been looking at the church for an age, and are about ready to leave.”
“She is not overcome by the heat, I hope?” Ellie inquired.
“I think not. Merely a little tired.”
“Take her to the inn and get her a glass of something wet,” Rex recommended.
“It is a shame you do not have a chance to look over the church while you are here,” Ellie said to Claymore. “I could stay with Wanda. The church is very old, you know, and I don’t know whether Wa
nda pointed it out to you, but there are some rather fine carvings outside at the main doorway.”
“I didn’t notice. I’ll have a look on the way out, but I believe Miss Wanda wants to be alone, so don’t feel you must cut your visit short.”
“Let us go on,” Missie said to her brother, being no more interested in ancient architecture than he was himself.
“Tell you what, Clay,” Rex decided, “you stick around and let Ellie show you the place. Knows all about them old brass plaques and what not, for she’s always taking rubbings of them. I’ll take the ladies along to the inn. You join us there when you’re finished it.”
“Oh no,” Ellie said. As Rex intercepted a surprised glance from his friend, he remembered that he was by no means to separate Clay from his love of life, and he changed his tactics. “Well, there’s nothing here but an old pile of stones anyway. Come along and we’ll all have a bite to eat. Be just the thing to get Wanda’s crest back up.”
It was agreed, and they all four strolled back to the back of the church, where Wanda was sufficiently recovered to go along to the inn. No mention was made of the fine carvings on the doorway as they left, without so much as a glance at them. A private parlor was procured at the inn, but not before Wanda had a fleeting glimpse of Hibbard, accompanied by not only Robert Langdon, but also his hateful sister. Nora was wearing a new bonnet, with darling little roses on it, and a pink pelisse that clashed dreadfully with her orange hair. Silly girl, just like her to go thinking she could wear pink, only because she had seen herself in a stunning rose gown at the assembly. If that was the taste George Hibbard had, she was well rid of him.
“I’ll tell you what,” Rex said, suddenly inspired. “You and Miss Wanda stay here in this stuffy old parlor, Clay, and I’ll take Missie and Ellie into the common room.”
“I wish you would,” Missie replied. “It will be ever so much more amusing than cooped up in here, with no one to see.”
“No!” Clay said in a very loud voice, which startled Rex no end, as he thought he had hit on a very sly plan to throw them alone together, to get on with their courting.
“Why not?” Rex asked.
Claymore was too well bred to admit he was bored to flinders with his lovely companion, and suggested that for propriety’s sake they ought to remain together.
“Didn’t think about that when you asked her in the first place then,” Rex reminded him. “Didn’t know then I was to bring the other girls along.”
Clay cringed at this loud recital, but Ellie replied to Rex. “Mama would not like Wanda to be alone with Claymore, when we are all here at the same inn. It would look so very odd.”
“Let us all go into the common room,” Wanda suggested. She was by no means sure George had seen her, and certainly he had no way of knowing her escort was a titled gentleman, unless she could call him “my lord” within that other party’s earshot
Clay was not accustomed to dining in a public room when he chaperoned ladies, but he was broad-minded enough to submit to the plan, even though he had no idea why they found it so desirable. In general, ladies desired all the consequence of private parlors and any other nicety that money could procure. He was not long in the dark as to why the common room was preferred.
“Why, there is George Hibbard,” Missie announced in her trumpeting young voice, immediately audible throughout the entire room. “And with the Langdons. I shall drop over and say hello to them.” She dashed off, while Wanda examined the white tablecloth with great interest, and asked whether Ellie did not find the room very pleasant.
“Yes, very pleasant,” Ellie agreed, wondering at her sister’s mood. If she had decided not to have George, she ought to be happy he was leaving her alone. But she was not happy. That wan smile and martyred expression might be indicative of many things, but certainly not of joy.
Secure that Missie would impart the identity of her escort, Wanda became quite lively during the meal. After a glass of wine she even said she was looking forward to the return trip in the curricle. Such fun driving the open carriage, and the sun would be behind them.
This animation from his erstwhile lover, and even more the knowledge that her escort was a marquis, loaded with blunt, as Missie had happily told him, so enraged George Hibbard that he bent over backward to show Wanda how little he cared. This was made very easy by the presence of Nora Langdon, who was more than willing to flirt outrageously, pop morsels from her plate into his mouth, roll her eyes at him, and in general behave in a manner designed to inflame Wanda the Wonderful with a terrible jealousy. Not to be outdone, Wanda turned a beaming face on the Marquis, and playfully proposed a toast to the Golden Rose. In a loud aside to Ellie she added it was a pity they were both dark-haired, for London gentlemen would look at nothing but blondes.
Heated denials of this, and a toast in turn from Lord Claymore to the Wanderley Flowers confirmed Hibbard’s suspicion that he had been jilted for a title, and before long he and his party took themselves off. A strange listlessness fell upon Wanda when they were gone. She asked offhandedly of Missie what the Langdons had had to say.
“They said they were surprised to know a marquis ate in the common room,” Missie replied.
“How did they know who I am?” Clay asked.
“Why, I told them, of course,” Missie replied, nonplussed at his stupidity.
By the time the second party left the inn, it had begun to cloud up slightly, and they decided to return home immediately. Clay didn’t even remember to purchase a trinket for Wanda. “Lord, let us get home before it starts to pour,” Wanda whined. “That’s all it needs to make this day complete.”
Such a leveler as this left Claymore in no doubt that she had enjoyed the outing as little as he had himself. Once home, no offer was extended to remain for dinner, nor would it have been accepted if it had. Claymore’s temper, never calm, was about at its breaking point. Definitely the excursion had been a deplorable idea. A delicate girl like Wanda required a completely different sort of background to show to advantage. The theatre, the opera, a ball—that is where she would shine. He would soon have an opportunity to judge if he were not right, for there was an assembly to be held that coming Saturday. Mrs. Wanderley told them about it, and determined as well that Rex should take Claymore to it. That gave both discomfited parties a whole day—Friday—to recover from the fiasco of the expedition to Needford.
Chapter Six
On Tuesday evening Mrs. Wanderley had written to Lady Siderow regarding the arrival of the Marquis of Claymore at the Abbey, among other less important matters. As Lady Siderow’s usual gay round of activities was curtailed by the closing of the Season, her mama had her answer on Saturday morning. She wrote a good clear hand, and didn’t stoop to crossing her pages as her husband might frank her letters for her, saving the recipient the expense. “C’s arrival,” she wrote, “would be the result of his having been turned down by Miss G. It is one of the on dits of London that she had an offer from him. He even tried to get her to dash for the Border. What a hullabaloo that would have been! Well, he is free, Mama, and I wish Wanda luck, if that is what you have in mind. Keep a sharp eye, though, or your little girl might be fleeing off to Gretna Green—a high price to pay, even for the title of marchioness.” The epistle continued for two pages of lesser news, but it was only the part concerning Claymore that was conveyed to Wanda.
“There will be none of this Gretna Green for you, milady,” her mother adjured strictly.
“Pooh. He doesn’t even like me. He is still in love with Miss Golden, and only trying to forget her.”
“That shows a streak of common sense that I find particularly pleasing. You will wear your white spangled gown to the assembly, love. And I think a more demure hair style might be better than that Meduse thing you wore the other night. Pulled back, with ringlets over your shoulder, and perhaps a rosebud entwined around the knot. If your papa were not such an old skint with his blooms, he might let us have one of his curst orchids for a corsage, but th
ere is no point in asking him.”
Wanda took some interest in this discussion, though it was not Claymore she was hoping to impress with her toilette. George would naturally be there too—with old redhead Langdon, like as not, wearing a pink gown.
Receiving no parental help in the matter, Ellie decided to adopt Wanda’s Meduse hair style, and spent a miserable Saturday afternoon with her hair done up in papers. She selected a pale green Italian crepe gown that had been given her by Lady Tameson on her last visit, and while it fit like a glove, it was of a more daring décolletage than she normally chose. She was in some trepidation when she entered the Green Saloon, for she was not at all sure Mama would approve. But it was no such a thing.
“Why Ellie!” her mother said, looking with pleasure at the fashionable picture her daughter presented. “How charming you look. Doesn’t she look nice, Wanda? The hair style suits you very well. I told you that washerwoman way you wore it was ugly. Only see what an improvement the papers have made. And the gown—Caroline’s old green, is it? Very dashing. Fits to a nicety, love. You ought to have some bit of jewelry with it. I’ll get my little pearls.”
She intercepted the butler in the hall, and sent him to ask a maid to fetch her seed pearls. They were duly fastened around Ellie’s neck, and her outfit was ready. Even Wanda, Mrs. Wanderley thought in surprise, did not look so very much finer than Ellie when she was dolled up a bit. No problem with little Ellie, after all. Next Season she would do very well for herself. Another title—not a doubt of it. How Marie Homberly would writhe in envy.
There was no question of Adam leaving his flowers long enough to accompany them. He was in the process of crossing an epidendrum with his cattleya, and must remain on the premises, like a midwife at a cross-birth. Abel, however, was more than happy to oblige them, and at an hour deemed suitably late to make a grande entrance, Mrs. Wanderley shepherded her charges in, and had the exquisite pleasure of seeing every female eye in the room turn green.
