Love’s a Stage

by Laura London

  “Then what?”

  “I’ll do what I can to prove his guilt! The villagers are terrified of him, but after he’s been caught, I know they will come forward to testify on Papa’s behalf.”

  “Go stay with your Uncle Ambarrow,” Sophia recommended.

  “Aunt, you know what they are, full of conventions and false propriety. If I told Uncle any of this, he’d be horrified and forbid me to have anything more to do with it. He’d announce that he’d taken the matter into his own hands, and that would mean nothing would get done.” Frances directed her most appealing smile toward her aunt. “Dear Aunt Sophie,” she said, and put her hand on her aunt’s plump forearm. “That’s why I came to you. Papa says you are the best of his aunts! He’s told me many times that you were the only one he could trust with the secrets of his boyhood pranks.”

  “Hm’ph. You’ll get in trouble and everyone will blame me.”

  “I won’t get in trouble; I’ll prove father’s innocence and everyone will honor you.”

  “Don’t waste your cajolery on me, my girl. Does your mother know about this?”

  “I thought,” said Frances, looking a little guilty, “that it might be best not to worry her, so Joe and I haven’t told her anything about Edward Kennan. She thinks I’m staying with Aunt and Uncle Ambarrow, to help them with the legal formalities of freeing Papa.”

  “Oh, does she? And what if your mother writes to Aunt Ambarrow to find out how you are getting along?”

  Frances fixed an innocent gaze on the plaster ceiling. “Joe has conceived a plan to alter the letters.’Twill be easy for him. He’s always been the one to handle postings. It is for Mama’s own good.”

  Aunt Sophie rolled her eyes. “Thank God I never had children. Now that I come to think on it, I recall that you’ve an older brother. Why doesn’t he undertake this business? What’s his name—Charles?”

  “Yes. We call him Charlie! He’s the dearest of brothers and a ‘right one,’ as Joe says, but he’s a missionary in the north of Africa, converting the heathen pirates, you see. He’ll return at once when he hears about Papa; but with the mails as they are, who knows how long it will be until he gets our letters?”

  Aunt Sophie gave her a wondering glance. “What a family! Pirates and smugglers! What next?”

  Frances’ cherry lips blossomed into a sudden smile. “Spying, if you’ll let me stay! I shan’t be any trouble to you, I promise. In fact, I might be a help if you could think of a way I could be obliging.”

  “Oh, well, I really don’t think so, my dear, because Henrietta is a marvel of efficiency and inclined to resent interference so . . .” She stopped as a light dawned behind her eyes. “Except for the parrot! Henrietta detests the parrot!”

  Frances raised her eyebrows in lively curiosity. “Have you a real parrot? How wonderful! I’ve never seen one. Can it talk?”

  “More’s the pity, yes, because he’s belonged in the past to a sea captain, and his language would put a dockhand to the blush. The Lord only knows what’s in those foreign phrases he says! My friend Mrs. Pingbodie acquired the bird on her trip to the Orient. She’s had him shipped home to me and begs me to take care of him until her return this summer. The problem’s been that Henrietta’s taken him in dislike. But wait—meet him yourself. His name’s Mr. Bilge, and I’m afraid that reflects the quality of his manners.”

  Aunt Sophie summoned her maid and shouted, “Bring the bird,” punctuating her request by flapping her arms like wings. Henrietta was pleased to exit with a grimace but returned bearing a large parrot squatting on a much-chewed wooden perch.

  Mr. Bilge was an elegant creature, with feathers dappled in shades of gray, a bright-red tail, and a balding head domed with powdery white. He fixed Frances with a beady eye and squawked in a loud rasp:

  “Paltry, paltry. A mere nothing!”

  Frances laughed delightedly. “Such a gruff fellow you are! Never mind, we’ll be friends, I know.” Advancing toward Mr. Bilge, she sang out musically, “Pretty Polly.”

  “Shut yer ugly mug,” answered the parrot. He regarded Frances with a fulminating eye before turning his back and tucking his head under a wing.

  Frances directed a chagrined smile to her aunt. “I don’t appear to have made an instant hit. But I shall persevere. No doubt Mr. Bilge has been roughly handled in the past and has become wary of strangers.”

  “Could be. Henrietta is convinced that he hates women. You may be able to overcome his prejudice.”

  “I shall! Mr. Bilge shall be henceforth under my wing,” said Frances. “Oh, dear. Forgive me, I’m the most dreadful punner. And thank you from the bottom of my heart for allowing me to stay. My whole dependence was on you! It was in my mind most straitly that you would understand, being of such an independent disposition yourself.” Frances returned to the settee and sipped her cooling tea.

  “Gammon!” said Aunt Sophie, looking not a bit displeased by this reading of her character. “Well, for better or for worse you’re here. What’s to be your first step?”

  “I’m not sure. I have decided that I ought to be as inconspicuous as possible.”

  Sophie subjected Frances’ faded print day dress to a critical survey. “I don’t love to be the bearer of bad tidings, my dear, but you’re not going to appear inconspicuous in that rig. If I may be frank, you look a turn-of-the-century scullery maid.”

  Having her clothing denigrated twice in one day did nothing for Frances’ self-esteem. Rather meekly, she said, “Surely it’s not that bad?”

  “Worse,” said Aunt Sophia. “Someone’s going to catch you and stick you in the wax museum. I suppose you don’t have the money to dress. Very well; let me fix you up with a couple of items. I know a nice little dressmaker on Bond Street. . . .”

  “Say no more, Aunt. I could not! It’s imposition enough for me to . . .”

  “Fiddlesticks!” intervened Sophia. “If it’s the money you’re worried about, I’ll be glad to have something to spend my shillings on. Last quarter I had so much investment income that I had three thousand pounds to spare.” She shuddered at the recollection. “Thank God my financial man is discreet. People might think I’d been practicing a lot of vulgar economies.’Sides, doubt if I’d fancy my dinner if I had to eat it looking at that dowdy costume.”

  Miss Atherton had a strict sense of the respect due to her elders; therefore she restrained herself from pointing out that a certain lack of appetite might cause her great aunt more benefit than harm. Sophia took advantage of her niece’s hesitation to announce:

  “It’s settled then. We’ll take the carriage to Madame Dominique in the morning! Mind you, before I set you loose on London, I had better say that it won’t do to take the city lightly. If some scoundrel isn’t picking your pocket, then he’s breaking into your house. Have a care what you’re about! And watch out for the libertines. Being a parson’s daughter, I’m not sure what you know about it, but . . .”

  “I know only too well!” acknowledged Frances grimly. She had, for a short time, forgotten her earlier affront. It came flooding back with a vengeance. “I was horribly insulted on my way here. A man (for I won’t call him a gentleman!) made a suggestion to me of a nature so degraded, so debauched . . .” A trembling anger grew so strong within her that she stood, fists clenched, and would have paced the room were it not so constricted by clutter.

  “Was he handsome?” asked her aunt, with some interest.

  “Yes,” affirmed Frances forcefully. “Very!” She stood staring for a brief time into the roaring fire before adding, “He said he was a relative of the young man living downstairs.”

  “Downstairs? The Rivington boy lives below me. Hell-for-leather young daredevil, though pleasantly spoken as you please.” Aunt Sophie made a small adjustment to her impressively plunging bodice. “Not acquainted with him myself, besides a civil ‘how d’ye do’ in passing. Above my touch! Young Rivington comes from quite a clan—one of Lord Tresten’s nephews. Aristocrats rich as kings, smart as
whips, and wild as the north wind! I wouldn’t call it an insult if a colt from that herd made suggestions to me.” She chuckled. “Whichever cousin it was, I’ll bet he doesn’t often get a turndown! You did give him a turndown?”

  “Aunt!”

  Miss Sophie Isles advised her grandniece to avoid squawking at her in the style of Mr. Bilge and ordered Henrietta to make up the guest bedchamber.

  * * *

  After her aunt left for her dinner engagement, Frances unpacked her dressing case, dutifully filled her bed warmer and inserted it between the muslin sheets, and then sat cross-legged on the well-fluffed feather bed. She twisted her hair into a pair of long braids and tucked these under her knitted nightcap. The familiar chore reminded her of her home. She could see the little ones giggling at their own sweet nonsense as they sat near the hearth on tiny chairs lovingly made by her brother Charlie. The older boys and girls would be gathered to chatter happily around the trestle table. Grandmother would be comfortable in her rocking chair, knotting a fringe to replace the one from the parlor drape that little Edward’s greyhound pup had beheaded Wednesday last. “The Bean” (everyone’s pet name for the baby) would sit on Mother’s lap, bouncing and slapping the table with her tiny fat palms. Just before prayers, fifteen-year-old Pamela, fresh from her job watching the Squire’s twins, would burst laughing through the door, late as usual but with her arms filled with Mama’s favorite spring flowers. Everyone would be together tonight except for Charlie and Frances—and Father. Father would be alone as well . . . no, best not to think of that. Think instead of something pleasant. Unbidden, before she could stop it, came the memory of the wonderful green eyes, the fresh blond hair, the remarkably attractive features of the man she knew only as Mr. David.

  Chapter Three

  Whatever criticisms of Miss Atherton’s attire it might have been possible to make on the afternoon of her arrival in London, by eleven of the clock the next morning Aunt Sophie and Mme. Dominique created for her a wardrobe that would have satisfied the most persnickety young woman and quite flattened Miss Atherton with a sense of obligation. She arrived at Mme. Dominique’s with the firm detemination to buy one simple and modestly priced walking dress and an inexpensive bonnet.

  Inside Mme. Dominique’s intriguing establishment, however, Aunt Sophie had shown rare deviousness by convincing Frances to try on a stunning assortment of gowns under the plausible motive of deciding which would be the best. Once this was done, Aunt Sophie bought them all. Frances was scandalized when she became aware of her great-aunt’s treachery, but her stern rejection of so excessive a gift had been answered by her aunt’s blunt statement that if Frances didn’t like it, then Frances could return to her nasty little village and wallow about with the smelly fishes; if Frances wanted to stay in London, she’d better dress in a manner that didn’t disgust her fashionable Aunt Sophie. Miss Atherton was not so easily defeated, and for a full half hour the apprentice seamstresses peeking through the dressing-room curtain were entertained by a fierce battle of wills. They recognized in Miss Atherton a game contender with plenty of pluck, but well they knew that Miss Sophie Isles was a lady who could take on all comers and then some. They were right. Frances was never sure afterward how she had let her aunt bully her into taking home the indecently large collection of dresses; then Sophie rubbed salt into the wounds by directing Mme. Dominique to add matching bonnets, scarves, stockings, and reticules to the order.

  This done, Miss Isles sallied off to lunch with her friend Miss Bolton, secure in the conviction that whatever her niece did to disgrace the family while in London, at least she would not do so by her appearance. Frances was left to ride home accompanied on one hand by a mortifying reflection of defeat by Aunt Sophie and on the other by visions of satin half-dresses, velvet plumed hats, and fur-trimmed mantles. It was a bewildering array of finery for a village-bred parson’s daughter, and Frances could only trust that the heady emotion she had experienced when seeing herself in the looking glass in the lovely dresses was due to the overpowering perfume Mme. Dominique was wont to sprinkle in her fitting room and not to a previously undiscovered attraction to the Hollowness of Fashion. How could she have let dear, determined Aunt Sophie convince her that she must be a monster of selfishness to refuse these clothes, that her plan to appear inconspicuous stood no chance without them. No sop for her conscience there. What lady would appear inconspicuous in a high-waisted gown of lilac-pink satin with deep-pink ribbon accents? Frances hoped earnestly that she had been right to accept the dresses because it was certain that she would never be able to resist the temptation to wear them!

  Frances arrived home to find a note from Henrietta saying that she had gone to carry the dinner roast to the public bake oven. Mr. Bilge was shifting guiltily on his perch; a claw-shredded copy of The Whole Duty of Man lay at the base of the bookshelves. Frances set the book on a table, casting a look of misgiving at the parrot.

  “There, now, that wasn’t the right thing to have done. I suppose, though, that you were only bored. Poor Mr. Bilge, was that it? I wonder how parrots like to be entertained. Pretty Polly?” she suggested.

  “Bah!” said the parrot.

  “If you find my conversation too insipid, perhaps you’d like a breath of fresh air!” Frances went to the window and worked open the sash. There was a rustle behind her, and a flap. As Frances turned back toward the parrot, he leaped from his perch and swooped airborne past her and out the window.

  “Mr. Bilge! Come back!” cried Frances. As fast as she spoke, the parrot disappeared from sight.

  Frances leaned out of the window, looking frantically up and down the street at the stone block of houses opposite, at the shifting kaleidoscope of traffic in the street beneath. An elderly blind man was strolling under her window, escorted by a pretty girl in a scarlet spencer jacket. There was a resonant thunder as a wagon heavy with newly minted bricks lumbered past, the smocked driver giving an idle pat to a long gray dog at his side. Next door, three workmen were trying valiantly to deliver a pianoforte through the narrow doorway of the house. London was preening itself outside her window; but the parrot was not. For all Frances knew, Mr. Bilge might already be winging his way back toward the Orient! Throwing open the wardrobe door, Frances grabbed her old cloak, let herself out of the apartment and ran down the open stair.

  As she was reaching for the front door handle, the door to her right opened and the man her aunt had described as “young Rivington” stepped into the hallway.

  In the more detailing light of day, Frances saw the shapely mass of brown curls, the cornflower-blue eyes. The red dressing gown was gone; a white linen shirt lay open at the neck; tan breeches were drape-molded to his narrow hips. A silk kerchief was knotted carelessly about his exposed throat, and Mr. Bilge, looking ridiculously smug, was perched high on one of his wide shoulders.

  Rivington gave Frances a quick, teasing smile.

  “Looking for someone?” he asked.

  Memories of last night’s shame lent a light rose cast to Miss Atherton’s cheeks, much to her discomfort. She wondered what whimsy of sentiment should cause her to blush; she was the injured party!

  In the easy intellect of Rivington’s glance and in his athletic unselfconscious posture she found his family resemblance to Mr. David, rather than in any similarity of features. It was only to be hoped that Mr. Rivington did not share his cousin’s want of principle. Intolerable to think that Mr. David might have repeated the tale of the offer he had made her to Rivington; perhaps they had laughed about it together. Intolerable, indeed! And how in the world had he come by the parrot?

  Civility forced her to say, “Yes. I had opened the window and he swooped out before I had a chance to as much as take a breath. Thank you.”

  The blue eyes shot her a glance. “For what, returning him? Henrietta won’t thank me, I promise you. When I returned him yesterday, she said that this time she’d hoped he’d met his end in some vagabond’s stewpot.”

  Frances found no satire
in the vivacious blue gaze. She relaxed slightly.

  “This time?” she queried.

  “Mr. Bilge has made more escapes than the Merry Men of Sherwood Forest. He sits on my ledge pecking at the pane until I let him in.” Sliding his wrist to the parrot’s feet, Rivington allowed the bird to step stiffly onto the soft white fabric of his cuff. He stroked the parrot’s head lightly with the back of his hand. “A funny fellow. Seems not to care for women.” The grin was wicked. “Too much time at sea. Sometimes these old sailors get a little odd.”

  Frances permitted herself a responsive smile. “Henrietta did say that she thought Mr. Bilge something of a misogynist.”

  “A virtual Simon Grump,” agreed Rivington. “When Henrietta tried to take him from me yesterday, the Honorable Bilge commanded me to throw her in the brig.” Rivington lifted one tan-trimmed boot to the bottom step. “I’ll carry him upstairs for you, if you like. He may be content with that.”

  Frances began to follow Rivington up the stairs. “That’s very kind of you. In the future you might find Mr. Bilge a reformed character. I intend to teach him some more civil expressions; last night before bed I spent the better part of one half hour repeating ‘pretty boy’ to him.”

  “And did he say it?”

  “No,” admitted Frances, opening the door to her aunt’s apartment. She led the way to a small sitting room that housed the parrot’s perch. “And he didn’t relish me saying it to him much either. I’m afraid he has a shockingly irascible temper.” Frances watched Rivington settle Mr. Bilge and then said, hesitantly, “A fault for which I am in the greatest sympathy, being something of a tinderbox myself. I don’t know what you must have thought last night. . . .”

  “I thought you were magnificent. And I thought you must have had a very good reason for being in a temper.” He gave Frances a playful shrug. “No, don’t bother to show me out, I know the way! Good afternoon!”