by Joan Smith
Clare frowned painfully and handed it back. “Very bad. Very bad indeed. In fact, I think it is actually the worst drawing of the tower I have ever seen. I can't recall having seen a worse—unless perhaps that abomination Sara is perpetrating..."
“I was thinking of having it shown at Somerset House,” Sara joked lightly, but Ella began to think Clare was a very rude host. No matter about her own, Sara's picture was very good. She personally hated sketching and was only here because he, as her host, had not bothered his head to arrange any better sport. He ought to be glad they could amuse themselves, instead of belittling their efforts. And he was rude to the others, too, calling Miss Prentiss a redhead twice, and offending Lady Honor by asking her if she could walk. Or she should have been offended, if she had had any sensitivity at all. Half the town of London feared his tongue, but from long practice Miss Prattle felt she could acquit herself well enough, should it come to a verbal battle. He didn't care what he said or did, and Ella took the decision that henceforth she would not care either. She would no longer sink into herself if he asked her a question, raking her with his cold gray eyes.
She said nothing, but in her mind's eye she was envisioning the words that would soon appear in the Observer.
While 99% of the ton twiddles its thumbs in London awaiting the D—e C—e's return from his palace, his invited guests twiddle their thumbs and try as best they might to get in the tedious days. It is reported a picnic was planned, but did not take place. The Misses S—n and P—s are improving their walking skills, and L—y H—r and her mama are reported to have had a good night's repose.
Her thoughts were broken into. “Did you find what you wanted in the library, Miss Fairmont?” Clare was saying. Perhaps not for the first time, as there was a certain edge to his voice. Ella knew herself to be deaf when she was preparing her column.
“Yes, thank you. You seem to have everything, and Mr. Shane was very patient in explaining it all to me. I shall know just where to find things for myself from now on."
“What sort of literature in particular are you interested in?"
“English literature,” she said, not to be questioned about all those other languages she had seen. His steely eyes continued to regard her fixedly.
“Yes?” It was an invitation, almost a command, to continue, but her reading was so scattered and diffuse that, though she did read a great deal, she was no specialist and could claim no superior knowledge in any field. Her resolve to face up to him vanished under the blast of those mocking eyes.
“I see,” he said, and gave up, turning once again to Sara, who proceeded to regale him successfully with a rather dull tale of Herbert and his gout.
He said not another word to Ella, and when the four returned to the house, it was to Lady Sara that he offered his arm. Miss Fairmont felt she had let herself down, and thought of a dozen witty and amusing replies she might have made to his question. Next time, she determined, she would give him a smart, even a sharp retort. She would see something but mockery in those eyes yet, even if it was anger.
As they strolled along, Clare said to Sara, “Your niece is very gauche. Why do you not take her education in hand and teach her to converse like a lady?"
“What, and set up a competitor under my own roof?” she smiled boldly, with her long-lashed eyes. Very fine eyes, he thought.
“Be serious, Sara. That little brown mouse would be no match for you, if she conversed like de Staël. Besides, you are a married lady and ought to stop hogging all the beaux."
“Oh, Ella is not open with strangers, and there is no point in trying to make a silk purse of a sow's ear."
He laughed heartily at this homely truth. “What an extraordinary experience it is, to have a chaperon admit her charge is a very plain little simpleton."
“I did not say that! She is well-read."
“Yes, she reads English, she tells me."
“When she takes to someone, she is as lively as even you could wish."
“I am no admirer of pert young ladies, but I do like a girl who has a few words to say for herself."
“I expect she is afraid you would give her one of your infamous set-downs, if she dared to open her mouth."
“I'm more apt to do so if she doesn't,” he admitted. The conversation turned to other topics, and the group reached the palace.
“It wants a few hours to dark,” Clare said. “I have some business to attend to in the village. I'll have a mount saddled up and ride in."
“And Ella and I shall take our abominable sketches in and flatten them under some books, if your Mr. Shane will permit it."
“Miss Fairmont must use her powers of persuasion,” Clare said with a lift of his eyebrow in her direction. “I make no doubt they got on admirably."
This was neither meant for a compliment, nor taken for one. “Yes, I find Mr. Shane more conversable than some of the gentlemen here,” Miss Prattle shot back, before Miss Fairmont had time to consider the wisdom of this jibe.
“Indeed!” Clare said.
There! She had jolted him out of his mockery now. But not for long. “I am happy you have found a fellow bookworm you can talk to,” he said, bowed, and turned his back on them.
“I'll go round to the stables to see how my horses are doing,” Bippy said, unaware that a small skirmish had just taken place.
“What came over you, Ella, to say such a thing?” Sara asked.
“He has been giving me digs all day, Sara, and I will not bear it any longer."
Sara's first reaction was to issue a warning, but upon consideration of Clare's recent words on the subject, she resisted. “Well, serves him right,” she said. “He told me I ought to encourage you to speak up."
“You don't mean he actually complained about me! Oh, he is insufferable. There was no need to mention it. Everyone must know how stupidly mute I have been."
“Yes, and I have a notion everyone will soon see a transformation,” Sara said with a pleased grin. “Come along, and see if you can wrest some heavy tomes from Mr. Shane."
* * * *
While one party sketched, the other rode about the estate. Sherry was not long happy, cantering through fields and parks with no one to admire her blue riding habit, and by dint of repeated coaxing and sulking, she induced the others to ride with her to the local village. She hoped for no more than an ogling by the locals; a good perusal of the shops would have to await the formal visit to Kitswell. Belle did not set her jaw against the scheme, as one expected her to do, and so the gentlemen went along. When they were stuck with the ladies, riding was no fun anyway, and a road was no worse than a field. They none of them looked forward to much of interest in the trip, and were all surprised at what they discovered, though the surprise was greeted with very different emotions in them.
It was the needle-sharp Belle Prentiss who recognized the long stride of the Duke as he paced along the street. This alone made the trip worth the bother, but he was not alone. He was accompanied by a young person of ravishing beauty, a blonde girl, well-built, with her face trustingly turned towards her protector, adoration in her pretty blue eyes. For this Belle would have ridden a hundred miles. She inadvertently gave a yank on her reins when she saw them, and her mount reared up. She was not aware of the fine scene she made, controlling her frisky animal without the least difficulty. Neither were her friends aware of it; they too had spotted Clare now, and were all staring at him as though turned to stone. They were not sure he had seen them, but as he immediately bolted into the door of the closest shop—Martin's Drapers it was called—and slammed the door after him, they were inclined to think he had.
“So he did not stay with the sketching party,” Sherry said. “Mama made sure he was carrying on a flirtation with Lady Sara."
There was a little smile of triumph on Belle's animated face. “Did any of you recognize her?” she asked the others.
“No,” and “Never saw her before in my life,” were the responses from the gentlemen. Sherry was momentarily
beyond speech.
“Dashed pretty wench,” Harley said, to no one in particular.
“Regular Incomparable,” Peters agreed, still staring at the door through which the apparition of loveliness had vanished.
Sherry was returned to reality by the medium of jealousy. “What a very plain old gown she wore,” she said.
“My dear,” Belle told her in a knowing manner, “she was not a lady."
“Oh, what could he be doing with such a person?” Sherry wondered aloud.
“Let's go and find out,” Belle suggested, smiling a challenge at them all.
“Better not,” Peters cautioned, already making ready to turn his horse about to retire from the village.
“Cowards!” Belle taunted. Sherry looked about waiting for someone to decide what she was to do.
“Peters is right.” Harley backed him up. “He won't be half pleased at us for seeing him. Best to get back to the palace and say nothing."
“But I don't understand what he is doing here with her,” Sherry repeated herself.
“What do you think?” Harley asked angrily.
“Maybe she works for him,” Peters advanced, with some intention of concealing what was clearly to him an amorous rendezvous.
“Ha ha. Maybe she makes up his jackets, since they are gone into the draper's shop,” Belle laughed. “He will start a new style. Weston and Stultz will no longer be the first tailors of London."
“It could very well be that she is a seamstress, doing some work for the Duchess,” Peters suggested, having improved on his former excuse that she worked for Clare.
“And Clare, of course, goes with her to choose the muslin,” Belle laughed ironically. “Why don't we go in and talk to him then, if it is so innocent as that?"
“Don't be such a greenhead, Belle,” Peters said curtly. “Not the thing for us to be spying on him, and I for one intend to go back home and say nothing about it."
“Yes, my girl, and you'll do likewise if you're half as clever as you think you are,” Harley added.
These strict warnings were enough to convince Sherry. With three horses being turned about in the middle of the road, Belle had either to join them, or go alone into the shop and accost Clare and his ladybird. Brazen as she was, she was not quite up to this, so she went along with her companions. The gentlemen killed open speculation on the way home by refusing to discuss the subject but, all the same, it was uppermost in everyone's mind.
Sherry worried to herself that Clare was showing a partiality for blondes. The young person in the village was, of course, not a threat, being of the lower orders, but Lady Honor was a blonde and the daughter of a Marquis. This point rated nearly as highly with Miss Sheridan as it did with Lady Honor. The gentlemen had no thoughts of mentioning the episode to Clare or anyone else, but Belle was as yet undecided on her strategy. True enough, Clare would dislike to be quizzed about the girl publicly, but in private she thought she might show him that she was a woman of the world by a little good-natured bantering. No more than Sherry did she see the girl as a real danger. Her interpretation of the matter was that this was the reason for his sudden bolt to Dorset in the middle of the Season, and the party he had set up was camouflage, pure and simple. It would account for his tardy rising that morning too, if he had gone out with the girl last night after the concert. She worried a little that he would take her to London and set her up in a private dwelling, thus very likely delaying any plans he might be formulating for getting married. For herself, she would not tolerate a mistress in London if she was the one he meant to have. He could keep her here in the country and welcome, but not in London, where everyone would know of her. Not the first year anyway, she compromised.
In Martin's Drapery Shop, the Duke banged his fist on the counter and exclaimed, “Dammit to hell anyway! A man can't even walk down a village street without being spied on. I'm sorry, Prissy. No, I am not angry with you. Please don't cry. You are still coming home with me, but you must stay out of sight, till these people that are visiting me leave. It won't be for long. Dry your tears now, you don't want to redden your eyes."
Chapter Six
Clare had invited a few country friends in to dinner, and with the additional young people, a small dancing party was got up in the music room to while away their second evening.
The next morning at 11:00 sharp, Miss Sheridan and Miss Prentiss entered the breakfast room, wearing striking riding habits of blue and green respectively, to set off their black and red hair. Clare had arisen early and been locked in his office for an hour with his bailiff before they came down. When the Duchess told them this bitter news, they settled for another ride with Mr. Peters and Lord Harley, but returned early to change for the picnic at the Pavilion, where lunch was to be served under the onion dome. The food and wine were excellent, and even a picnic at Clare was not conducted without the proper number of servants attending, so no one had to serve himself. Lady Honor appeared perfectly content to sit sipping wine and staring at the countryside with vacant eyes, but to the other members of the party there seemed to be something lacking once the food had been served. Perhaps the fact that Clare sat chatting with the Marchioness and his Mama accounted for the flatness of the outing.
When everyone but Lady Honor had emptied a third glass, and sat making desultory conversation for five minutes, Belle Prentiss arose and walked over to Clare. He went with her to join the younger group.
“What would you like to do this afternoon?” he asked.
Honor yawned, and it was pretty clear that she desired nothing but to go on comparing Clare's parks to her papa's, mentally, of course. The others seemed to want to do something, but nothing occurred to them.
“Sara, what do you think?” Clare asked.
“Is it too late to ride into the village?"
“We have been riding all morning and have just changed out of our habits,” Sherry said, with a whine creeping into her voice.
“And we went to the village yesterday,” Belle added, with a knowing smile at Clare, which he ignored entirely.
“Miss Fairmont, you will not want another bout in the library so soon. You decide what we are to do.” He was fed up with this bunch of turnipheads and not about to put himself out an inch for them.
“We might have a frog-jumping contest,” she said in Miss Prattle's tart tone. If he had no reasonable plans for them, she would show him what she thought of his hospitality.
“I beg your pardon?” He stared at her with a frozen face, but she was finished with being afraid of him.
“A frog-jumping race, Your Grace. We often do it at Fairmont. We happen to have a large pond."
“As it happens, I too have a large pond,” he replied, with some evidence of thawing on his frozen features.
“I was sure there would be one somewhere on your ten thousand acres,” she returned, quite sweetly, with just a bit of Prattle underlying the words. “We all go to the pond and catch our entry."
“It sounds horrid,” Miss Sheridan said, looking at her pale pink city gown.
Miss Sedgley opened her eyes a millimeter wider and nearly frowned in distaste, but at the last moment her muscles were not up to it, so she just looked.
“No, really, Ella,” Lady Sara admonished.
“But it sounds a capital idea,” Clare intervened, and immediately Miss Sheridan and all the others thought it a pretty good idea too. “We go to the pond, Miss Fairmont, and catch our entrants, then what?"
“Well, catching your racer is half the fun, and it is a rule that everyone must catch his own. We set up a course about—oh, ten or fifteen yards long. We shall require some markings for a start and finish line, and of course a prize for the winner."
“What prize do you suggest?” Clare asked, listening to her explanation and never taking his eyes from her while she talked.
“Some little bibelot will do, or a guinea. At Fairmont we have an inscribed cup, since it has become an annual event."
“What a pity I have no inscr
ibed cup, but if you assure me a guinea will do...” His expression had not only melted, but was turning quite warm.
Ella looked, half suspecting he was roasting her, but was determined to brazen it out. “Oh, yes, a guinea will do nicely."
“Are there any other rules?"
“Yes, you are not allowed to touch your racer from beginning to end. No giving him a nudge with your toe or finger, though you may follow along behind and give all the vocal help you wish. It is the shouting and yelling that make it fun."
“By Jove, that sounds like great sport,” Mr. Peters said. “Let's go to the pond straight off. I bet a monkey my frog will take yours, Harley."
“We'll see about that. Is a bullfrog allowed, Miss Fairmont?” Harley asked.
“Yes, any frog at all. Bullfrogs are excellent. But don't make the mistake of getting a toad, for they can't keep up with a frog at all."
“I know a toad from a frog,” Harley replied, wounded.
“Must the girls catch their own frog, too, Miss Fairmont?” Sherry asked.
“Yes, that is part of the rules, but you may use an old pair of gloves if you don't like to touch it and take a basket to carry it in."
Clare quickly dispatched a footman for old gloves and baskets, and by the time everyone had put a question to Miss Fairmont to clarify the rules, and the gentlemen had indulged in an orgy of betting, he was back. The mothers stayed behind at the Pavilion, and in fact soon wended their way back to the house, but the young folks ran in high spirits to the pond, which was not so very far away.
Belle Prentiss entered into this game as any other with great eagerness and determination to win. She cheated a little by getting Peters to actually lift her specimen from the pond, but she put it in the basket herself and struck up a new idea by calling it Count Ugolino, from Dante's Inferno, because it was so grotesquely ugly.
Miss Sheridan cheated quite a lot. She smiled prettily at Bippy, and pointed out the frog she wanted, and he was kind enough to lift it from the lily pad for her and carry it in his basket. When Miss Fairmont was appealed to for a ruling on this, she allowed that as there was a shortage of baskets, it would be permitted. Lady Honor ignored all rules, as became a lady, and told Clare to get her a frog and take it to the starting line. She then went and stood under a beech tree while her will was done.
