by M C Beaton
“Agatha?” asked Amaryllis and Lord Philip in unison. The small party was seated—or rather, hiding out—in the morning room as a large group of visitors was being shown over the rest of the house.
“My sister,” said Freddie. “She was going to join me at Perry’s, but of course now she’ll come here—that is, if it isn’t putting you out too much, ma’am?”
“Not at all,” said Amaryllis.
“Agatha?” queried Lord Philip again. “I cannot bring to mind your sister.”
“Never saw her, that’s why,” said Freddie. “Went and married a Cit. She’s a widow now. Only twenty-six. No children.”
From the picture gallery upstairs came a scream and the sound of a fall.
Amaryllis held up a restraining hand as the gentlemen leapt to their feet. “’Tis only one of the lady visitors fainting. For some reason they always do that. Tight lacing and a predilection for visiting country houses in all weathers seem to go hand in hand.”
“You seem to have an uncommon lot of visitors,” said Colonel Freddie. “That’s the third lot since I arrived.”
“I had begun to think it was usual. Foster, my butler, told me it was.”
“Not by a long shot,” said Freddie. “If I had this lot, I would bar the gates.”
Amaryllis smiled. “The servants do not seem to mind.”
“No, why should they?” said Freddie cheerfully. “Look at all the money they’ll be getting.”
Amaryllis looked at him in surprise. Of course! No wonder Mrs. Jarrett and Foster were pleased with the flow of visitors. Amaryllis was glad they were making money and therefore did not pause to wonder about the reason for the sudden increase in visitors.
She turned to Freddie. “When do you expect your sister?”
“Oh, ’bout tomorrow. She’ll go to Perry’s first and then she’ll come along here.”
Foster entered with the post on a silver tray. “There is Colonel Jackson’s and Lord Philip’s correspondence as well, my lady. The post boy brought it along from Sir Russell’s.”
“Very good, Foster. Ah, here is one for you, Colonel Jackson, and, let me see, three for you, Lord Philip, and several for myself.”
The three settled back in the comfortable chairs of Amaryllis’s pretty morning room, which faced south across the lawns to the lake, and began to read their post.
Lord Philip gave an angry exclamation. “I wrote to the Fangs from your place, Freddie, saying I was going on to stay with Sir Peregrine and now Mrs. Fang says that they will be in the vicinity and will call. Perry will tell them I am here. What a confounded nuisance.”
“I have bad news as well,” said Amaryllis, looking up from a crossed and recrossed sheet of parchment. “Priscilla Armitage is threatening to pay me a surprise visit.”
“All we need,” said Lord Philip gloomily, “is my old friend Harry Bagshot to complete the picture.”
“Mr. Bagshot,” announced Foster from the doorway.
“I’m terribly sorry to burst in on you like this, Lady Philip,” said Harry rushing forward and making a clumsy bow.
“Lady Philip?” echoed Freddie, staring from one to the other.
“I’ve been looking all over for you, Phil,” said Harry Bagshot. “What a job I’ve had of finding you. Knew you was still mad at me. You never gave me time to apologize.”
“I would really rather you hadn’t troubled, Harry,” said Lord Philip coldly.
“I say, why did he call you Lady Philip?” asked Freddie plaintively.
“Oh, lor’,” said Harry, collapsing into the nearest chair. “I’ve done it again! Look, please forgive me, Phil. How was I to know that Priscilla would chatter so? As a matter of fact, I called her some very hard names. Never want to set eyes on her again. Broke off the engagement that very day.”
“Well, if you sit here much longer, you are most certainly going to meet her. She is already on her way to pay me a visit.”
The small figure of Mr. Bagshot seemed to crumple in the chair.
“Miss Armitage!” announced Foster.
Priscilla swept forward and embraced Amaryllis, crying all the while into a lace handkerchief liberally scented with onion.
“Oh, Amaryllis, do… do forgive me… my life is ruined. Oh, Harry!” she cried on espying that gentleman. Then she dropped in a dead faint on the floor. Her cheeks were still very pink and Amaryllis glared down at her suspiciously.
“Foster!” called Amaryllis. “Fetch a bucket of cold water and throw it over Miss Armitage.”
Miss Armitage immediately came to life and scrambled to her feet with alacrity. Looking from Mr. Bagshot’s miserable face to Amaryllis’s cold one, Lord Philip’s bored one, and Freddie’s stunned amazement, she really began to cry in earnest without even having to resort to her onion juice-soaked handkerchief.
With a little sigh, Amaryllis moved forward. “Do not take on so, Priscilla. I will take you to your room and we will talk about things later. I am sure you must be exhausted after your journey. Mrs. Jarrett shall send your maid to you and then you can be comfortable.” And, still talking, she led the weeping girl from the room.
“What’s this about Lady Philip?” pursued Freddie.
“A slip of the tongue,” snapped Lord Philip. “Wasn’t it, Harry?”
“Oh, yes, yes, yes,” burbled Harry. “Always was like that you know. Never could get people’s names right.”
A carriage crunched over the gravel of the drive at the front of the house. From the sound of the subsequent commotion it seemed as if several people had arrived.
“More visitors wanting to see the house,” said Freddie.
“Oh, no,” said Lord Philip. “I feel in my bones that the Fangs have arrived. Now, as I recollect, there is a billiard room at the back of the house. I suggest we repair there before we are further trapped!”
They escaped just in time, for it was indeed the Fangs.
Amaryllis had invited Mr. James Worthy to join them for dinner that evening. She had told Mrs. Jarrett to instruct the cook that no special fare or exotic French dishes were to be sent to the table. The guests must eat what the household usually had, which was good plain fare. She placed Miss Fang next to Mr. Bagshot and Priscilla next to Fang père, with Miss Wilkins on his other side. Lord Philip was placed next to Mr. Worthy, with herself on his other side. Freddie was then flanked by Mrs. Fang and Priscilla.
Although round tables were considered the height of vulgarity, Amaryllis had had the long dining table carried out and replaced with a round table from the Yellow Saloon on the first floor. That way, she would not need to worry about precedence or who took the head of the table facing her.
Priscilla had recovered enough to make several tittering and snide remarks about parvenus and round tables but Freddie put up his quizzing glass and stared at her with such open horror that she flushed and fell silent, contenting herself by throwing sulky looks in the embarrassed Mr. Bagshot’s direction.
Perhaps the only person who seemed to enjoy the dinner was Lord Philip, who had taken an immediate liking to the steward, Mr. Worthy, and was soon plunged deep in animated conversation of crop rotation and cattle and sheep. Amaryllis found she had to entertain Mr. Bagshot, who was glad to turn his attention from Miss Fang, who blushed every time he spoke to her and said everything was “hoffly nice.”
The port and madeira were at last going the rounds, the ladies taking wine with the gentlemen. “Taking wine” is an exhausting business. You select someone to take wine with and raise your glass and nod to that individual, who raises his or her glass and nods to you, and so it goes on throughout the meal and, of course, if you are taking wine with a heavy drinker, why, your head is nodding like a mandarin by the time you get to the port and walnuts stage.
At the beginning of the meal, a footman had bent over Amaryllis’s shoulder and whispered to her the intelligence that Colonel Jackson wished to take wine with her. Amaryllis raised her glass to Freddie and both nodded. Freddie turned out to have
a formidable capacity and, of course, if you have agreed to take wine with someone, you can’t very well give up in the middle of the meal.
Amaryllis was just about to rise and lead the ladies to the drawing room when there was a rattling of wheels on the drive outside. She turned to Foster, who was standing by the sideboard. “Foster, if by any chance that happens to be visitors to see around the house calling at this unearthly hour, they must be sent packing immediately.”
“Very good, my lady.”
Amaryllis decided to wait until whoever it was had been sent about their business before taking the ladies to the drawing room. Out of the corner of her eye, she was aware that Freddie was raising his glass and trying to catch her attention. She refused to look in his direction. She felt she simply could not bear to drink another glass of wine. Her head was swimming and the room and its occupants seemed fuzzy, as if she were seeing them through gauze.
Foster entered the room and went quickly to his mistress. “Colonel Jackson’s sister, Mrs. Jordan, has arrived.”
“Oh, dear. I mean, how splendid. Colonel Jackson, your sister is here.”
“What, Agatha?” said Freddie, bounding to his feet.
“Yeth, me, Fweddie!” cried a little voice from the doorway.
All the men got to their feet and stared at Freddie’s sister in a bemused sort of way.
Freddie’s sister, Agatha, was one of the most enchanting-looking women Amaryllis had ever seen. She had a little heart-shaped face and a tiny red mouth—small enough to please the highest stickler. She had huge blue eyes and curls of midnight black rioting from under an ermine shako. She carried a large swansdown muff. She had divested herself of her pelisse and was wearing a scarlet merino gown with black stripes, cut very low over her white bosom. It should have looked vulgar and certainly would have on any other woman. But somehow it added to Agatha’s saucy appeal.
Amaryllis hurried forward. “We are just about to retire to the drawing room and leave the gentlemen to their wine, Mrs. Jordan. Have you eaten?”
“Oh, yeth,” smiled Agatha. “Beaucoup, vraiment.”
Miss Fang could be heard asking a question as to whether the newcomer were French, not having grasped that most of the ton interlarded their conversation with French phrases.
“I think we should join the ladies,” said Lord Philip suddenly.
There was a cheerful chorus of assent.
Amaryllis looked sharply at Lord Philip. He was gazing at the vision that was Mrs. Jordan, a smile curling, his mouth, a predatory look in his eyes.
Men, thought Amaryllis, near to tears. She moved hurriedly to lead Mrs. Jordan to the drawing room and therefore missed the speculative look that Lord Philip cast in her direction.
“I wonder…” mused Lord Philip as he followed the ladies. “Now could it be that the iron Lady Lovelace could actually be made jealous…?
Six
Amaryllis awoke early the next morning and lay turning over the events of the previous evening in her mind. Priscilla Armitage had sworn that she would not tell any of the guests about Amaryllis’s marriage, although Amaryllis felt wearily it was bound to come out, what with Mr. Fang muttering about divorce in corners and Belinda whispering to Lord Philip that she forgave him.
Mrs. Fang herself had tackled Amaryllis over the matter of her marriage, obviously wishing to be reassured that Amaryllis and Lord Philip were not living as man and wife. Why Priscilla Armitage had chosen to come on a visit was vague, since she was not the sort of girl to be troubled with remorse, but Amaryllis at last decided that having failed to secure a husband at the Season and having found out through the grapevine that Mr. Bagshot was traveling into Oxfordshire to find Lord Philip, Miss Armitage had assumed—correctly as it turned out—that her ex-fiancé was to be found at Beaton Malden and wished to see if she could reanimate his affections.
There did not seem to be much hope of it, for Mr. Bagshot now appeared terrified of Priscilla. Both Priscilla and Belinda Fang, reflected Amaryllis, were lucky in that they had doting and indulgent parents. The Fangs were prepared to pay for the divorce, if necessary, in order to supply their daughter with a title, and Priscilla’s parents had allowed her to travel to the country with only her maid in order to hunt down a man who had shown quite clearly that he did not want to have anything to do with her.
Rain pattered steadily against the windows of the bedroom and Amaryllis wondered drearily what on earth she was supposed to do to entertain her guests.
There was also Mrs. Jordan. Mrs. Jordan had rapidly shown that she had no time for her own sex at all. Although she had been polite to Amaryllis in a cursory way, she had been quite offhand with the other ladies. Her attentions to Lord Philip had been blatant.
He was a womanizer, thought Amaryllis savagely. He had lain in her arms and it had been the most marvelous thing that had ever happened to her. But it had all been a sham. He did not mock or tease Mrs. Jordan but paid court to her in a quite gentlemanly way which made Amaryllis grind her teeth.
Not yet understanding why this should hurt her so badly, she turned her face into the pillow and wept.
At last, she sat up and dried her eyes. Life had to go on. Lord Philip and Lady Lovelace could never be anything to each other, not even friends. She would tell him he must leave that very day and take Colonel Jackson and his sister, Agatha Jordan, with him. That way the Fangs would leave too, Mr. Bagshot and Priscilla could go as well, and she would be left alone to be as miserable as she liked. And with that cheering thought, she rang for her maid, dressed, and marched downstairs to the dining room, hoping to have her breakfast in peace and quiet before she had to face her unwanted guests.
As she descended the stairs, Foster was waiting in the hall with the intelligence that Sir Peregrine Russell’s footman had ridden over with a letter for her.
It transpired that a hunt ball was to be held at Sir Peregrine’s that very evening. Sir Peregrine realized that it was very short notice but he had not known till the other day that her ladyship was in residence. He included Lord Philip and Colonel Jackson in his invitation and also any other guests Lady Lovelace cared to bring.
Still reading the letter, she walked into the dining room. All her guests were already there, even Mrs. Jordan, who was the sort of lady Amaryllis could have sworn would not have arisen before noon.
Mrs. Jordan was waving a piece of grilled kidney on her fork in front of Lord Philip’s face and urging him to try it. It was “dewicious.” Lord Philip was looking as bored as a man could look, but no sooner did he set eyes on Amaryllis than he turned and smiled slowly and seductively into Mrs. Jordan’s eyes.
Amaryllis found herself announcing the news of the hunt ball in a rather shrill voice.
Agatha Jordan put a possessive little hand on Lord Philip’s sleeve and said, “Oooh, do wet’s go!” Lord Philip smiled at her lazily and said he expected Agatha to keep all the dances for him. Mr. and Mrs. Fang immediately accepted on behalf of their daughter, both of them nailing Agatha with fulminating glances.
Mr. Fang was a City merchant and looked it. He was a round person—round face, round body, round eyes—dressed in rusty black and wearing an old-fashioned wig. He was usually quiet and retiring in society, preferring to leave the “push” to his wife. Mrs. Fang was thin and elegant and very self-possessed. When it came to their beloved daughter, however, husband and wife were united in seeing that Belinda should get what Belinda wanted.
They had thought it would be a simple matter of arranging Lord Philip’s divorce as discreetly as possible. They had not reckoned on Agatha Jordan but, having got over their initial shock, they were determined to find a way to remove her from the field.
It was hard to say what Belinda thought of this new rival for Lord Philip’s affections, for she hardly ever raised her eyes, and her conversation consisted of monosyllables.
Priscilla Armitage was talking away at a great rate to Harry Bagshot, who was staring down moodily into the depths of his coffee cup as if wis
hing he could leap in and drown.
Colonel Freddie Jackson was staring from face to face in a puzzled way. He sensed the undercurrents in the room but could not quite make out what the trouble was. At last he decided it was because the wind was in the east and everyone’s liver was being adversely affected.
Amaryllis sat down at the table beside Miss Wilkins and muttered, “I do not feel like going at all. Also, it would be lovely to have the house to myself.”
“Oh, but you must go,” said Miss Wilkins. “It would not be at all the thing to let your guests go on their own. Besides, you have that vastly pretty ballgown, the green one with the blond lace, that you have never worn before. I realize this situation is vastly painful but…”
Clear and cold, Lord Philip’s voice interrupted Miss Wilkins. “Perhaps our hostess will favor me with a waltz?”
Amaryllis smiled bleakly on him, did not reply, and turned again to Miss Wilkins. Agatha Jordan looked across at Amaryllis with a bright gleam of calculation in her eyes and then she said to Lord Philip, “You are such a gentleman to even consider dancing attendance on us eldewwy widows.”
“Exactly,” said Mrs. Fang sweetly, “although Lady Lovelace is not exactly a widow since she is at the moment married to Lord Philip, a state of affairs which we all hope to remedy as soon as possible.”
Agatha looked blank and rapidly recovered her poise. “Oh, you naughty man!” she cried. “You should not flirt with me if you are mawwied.”
“I never could resist a pretty face,” said his lordship casually. “No, it’s no use goggling at me, Freddie. I am not going to explain my marriage over the breakfast table.”
“Especially since you are so soon to have it annulled,” said Mrs. Fang.
“Oooh, mama!” cried Belinda. “I don’t think… Philip… I mean… I don’t know.”
“You make my affairs a great deal too public, ma’am,” said Lord Philip. “I would like to make this plain. Lady Lovelace and I are married. She prefers to be addressed, however, by her late husband’s name. Whether we will divorce or no is a matter to be settled between Lady Lovelace and myself. It is not the least concern of anyone else.”
