by Joan Smith
“But that is the best part of the joke! He doesn't know we saw him. Peters and Harley won't let us say anything to him. Well, they have convinced us we ought not to, and only the four of us know. We didn't tell our mothers, Sherry and I, and your aunt doesn't know, I suppose, unless he told her. But I made sure you would know,” she finished up, with some thought of remaining on a friendly footing with Miss Fairmont, just in case.
“I don't know how you thought I should know, when you four who spied him appear to have made a pact of silence,” Ella said, her anger channeling itself to the bearer of bad news, as it so often does when the doer is beyond range.
“We were not spying on him!” Belle took her up immediately.
“I said when you spied him—happened to see him was all I meant. My, you're touchy, Belle.” Ella had been shocked and angered to hear Belle's story, but Miss Prattle was advancing to the fore, curious for reportable details, and it was Miss Prattle who spoke out, in Ella's voice. “This girl, what did she look like?"
“As pretty as could be,” Belle informed her, with a thrill of pleasure. “A petite blonde. She was clinging to his arm. We caught only a glimpse then, but she is young and attractive, as I learned later, though very common—a servant I think. Prissie is her name."
“Did you see them again?"
“Ha ha, I most certainly did, and you might see her yourself if you open your door one night, when we are all supposed to be asleep. He brings her right here to the palace! I was downstairs late one evening, and she came in wearing a shawl, asking for the ‘dook'—a very common accent. I was surprised he had her come here, with his Mama in residence, but it is supposed to be a secret from her, I make no doubt. The butler gave her what for, for not slipping up the back way."
Ella's senses were reeling, but she had enough pride to hide her hurt from this prying witch. “I am shocked that he brings her under his mother's roof,” she said.
“Yes, so am I, for he is usually very discreet. But then it saves him the trip into the village, I suppose, and so far as that goes, he would be well known there and more likely to cause gossip by haunting her house, than by having her here. So that is why he has latched on to you—to fool us all."
“But I see you are not so easily fooled!” Ella said calmly.
“Yes, and I am glad I told you since you didn't know, for it is too bad of him to fool you."
“He isn't fooling me,” Ella said in a steely voice and began to work on the carriage with great concentration, till Belle hopped away.
Ella did not rate her attractions high. She had been as much amazed as the others at her meteoric rise to favor in His Grace's eyes and was entirely ready to accept Belle's reason for it. Even without Sara's warning she would have believed it. She had held a grudge against Clare for many a long year—and was aware of his arrogance, vanity, conceit. She had not known him to be a rake, but Belle had mentioned his discretion. That would account for it. She had been a fool to think he cared for her—indeed she had never thought him serious. But she had not thought he was using her in this sly way, to conceal his own lechery. She had been a fool, and as if that weren't bad enough, everyone at the party who mattered, all the people her own age, knew she was a fool and were laughing at her. Well, she was in a position of preeminence to turn the tables on Clare, and she soon set about doing it.
She slipped up to her room before lunch, dipped her pen in vitriol, and wrote her revenge. Without taking a cool second look at what she was doing, she dashed off in colorful phrases the atrocities of Lord Clare, to be read and discussed in London. She addressed it to her grandmother and took it below for posting. This activity acted as a catharsis for her emotions, and when she met His Grace, she could treat him calmly, knowing that retribution was in store for him.
Chapter Ten
The first event in the tournament was to be the curricle race. The vehicles were tooled up to the starting point by the drivers, each with a band of ribbon streaming from his hat. They made a gay sight in their decorated carriages, and a pleasant cheer arose from the gathered crowd. A footman had been given a hurried lesson on the long horn by Miss Prentiss, and blasted four hoots to initiate the race. The ladies, always excepting Lady Honor, stood cheering their knights on, and from then till the drivers had disappeared down the road, executed an alarmingly sharp turn, and come back into view, there was little for the girls to do but talk and call each other by their first names some more. Miss Prentiss, now Belle to all, sought to ingratiate herself with Ella, when she observed that her tale-bearing had not turned her against Clare, as she had hoped. It had seemed to have almost the reverse effect, for Miss Fairmont was a little livelier than usual.
She formed the excellent notion of inviting her to her home for New Year's, to take part in the play about Anne Boleyn.
“Come for the New Year, Ella. Clare is coming.” As things stood, it seemed a good deal more likely he would come if Ella were known to be of the party, and one could always forget to remind her later if the friendship with the Duke petered out. “We'll get together in London, and you can choose a part. Jane Seymour is not taken. I have given her some very good lines.” She had to cut the conversation short as Sherry was lending an ear, and she was definitely not to be invited, however strongly she hinted. Belle needn't have worried. Sherry hadn't the slightest notion of inviting herself until Clare's plans were stated.
In a short time the sound of wheels and hooves bespoke the return of the charioteers, and the ladies had once more to urge their knight on. Harley and Clare were bolting along, neck to neck, with Bippy two lengths behind, and Peters out of it. He had made a poor turn, and lost a minute righting himself after the disaster. Every one of the young ladies was cheering Clare on to break the tie. Even Lady Honor said in a calm, deliberate voice, “Clare must win.” It was impossible he should not when Honor had decreed it, and he edged Harley out by a half a length, to be welcomed from his curricle by a shouting mob. Belle had been defoliating roses under the disapproving eye of the Duchess while she stood chatting, and had two handfuls of red petals to shower over him.
“That's one for us, Ella,” Clare said when he had shaken himself free of petals. “Have you no favor to confer on me? A token of your gratitude?"
She reached down and grabbed a sprig of red clover from the lawn and handed it to him. “In the lapel, if you please,” he said. She felt extremely awkward and forward, inserting it in his lapel, as though she were a brazen hussy like Belle Prentiss. But it was all a part of the show he was putting on, of course, pretending he liked her.
This was too much for Belle to tolerate. She elbowed Ella aside, and stuck a nice red rose on top of the clover, while the Duchess glowered at this repeated desecration of her garden.
“There, that's more like it,” she said saucily.
But before he returned to his curricle, Clare pointedly reached down and pulled the clover to the front, with a smile at Ella.
“Time for the jousting contest,” Harley called. “This time I'll take you, Clare."
“No, you won't. I'm not jousting."
“What, afraid?” Belle taunted.
“It's dangerous, and I don't think you others ought to either,” he stated, yet there was a certain look of longing on his face as they began hoisting the prepared saplings.
His mother arose from her chair and walked over to him. “I wish you would not, Patrick."
“Don't worry, Mama. I'm not about to risk my neck till I've produced an heir.” They stood chatting a minute, and Belle turned to Ella.
“It's because of his brother, I suppose. He broke his neck falling from a horse. I ought not to have said anything. The title would go to his cousin, George Foley, if anything happened to Clare."
During an enthusiastic morning of preparations and discussion, Harley had decided the contenders ought to carry shields for protection. These had been duly removed from the armaments room and brought to the site, but were soon found unwieldy and were cast aside. Next they had
to discover the proper grip for their swaddled saplings. Harley maintained that the only possible position was tucked firmly under the right arm, while Peters found it rested more comfortably against the abdomen. Clare advised them that both hands ought to be used, while using the legs to keep a seat on the horse.
“That's easy for you to say; you ain't competing,” Harley responded.
“Ask Miss Fairmont how they do it at Fairmont,” Bippy advised.
“Yes, she'll know,” Harley agreed. He was nearly as strong a supporter of Miss Fairmont as Peters was.
“It is a matter of style merely,” she reported. “Bertie, my older brother, always uses two hands, but Tom uses a shorter pole and holds it in one—up quite high so that he strikes the opponent in the shoulder. But a blow to the head is illegal."
“Have we got the sticks the right length?” Peters asked her.
She examined them, and pronounced them just right. “You don't want them too long or you can't strike a true blow."
“They actually do joust at Fairmont?” Clare asked her.
“Certainly, and no one has ever been hurt. Badly, I mean. Bertie got a black eye, and Ronnie Maclntyre has had several nose bleeds, but that happens if you look at him too hard, so that's nothing."
“If they do it at Fairmont, I do it,” Clare declared and took up a pole.
“Perhaps you shouldn't,” Ella said, glancing at his mother.
“What, worried about me, Ella? But how flattering!"
“No, I'm worried about your mother."
“You do a very good job of cutting me down to size,” he said, glancing at her sideways. She smiled to think how much better that remark suited the situation than he knew.
He picked up a pole and looked inquiringly at his mother. She shrugged her shoulders, to indicate she was washing her hands of him, and he turned back to Ella. “I shan't kill myself. The way these Johnnie Raws go at it, I see it isn't the lethal sport I imagined. And if we do it at Fairmont, then I must get in some practice.” He gave her one of his warmest smiles, designed, she supposed, to lure her into falling in love with him. But she was on to him now.
“But it is not likely you will ever be at Fairmont, is it, Your Grace?"
“Not by invitation, it seems,” he replied with a frown.
The remark annoyed him, but with the gladiators all eager to be slaying each other, he was diverted from considering it. They had only three poles, so that only two men could tilt at a time, and Peters insisted he deserved a turn before Clare be allowed to replace him. The horn was blown, dreadfully off key, and with his pole firmly lodged against his abdomen, Peters galloped towards Harley, who stuck to his decision of tucking his under his right arm. Harley's tactic gave him more maneuverability, and besides he was the better rider, so that with these two advantages, he unseated Peters on the second tilt. Peters suffered a hard fall, but no broken bones, and Bippy replaced him. They were unanimous in giving Clare last place, as he was the last to agree to enter.
Tredwell tried to do it with both hands on the pole, and his horse shied. With no hands to aid him, he sailed over the horse's head and hit the ground with a thump. The ladies rushed forward to succor him. “Believe I've broken my leg,” he said apologetically. But when he was dragged from the ground, it was discovered he could put some weight on it, so he was provided with a pair of crutches from the lengths cut off the jousting poles and encouraged loudly to refrain from succumbing to a broken leg. Within two minutes he had forgotten all about it and discarded the crutches. Within three, he was jumping up and down as hard as Belle and Sherry.
“Don't try it with both hands on the stick,” he warned Clare as his turn came up.
Clare ignored his advice, and when he went thundering towards Harley, he was tossed from his horse as easily as the others.
“By Jove, this is great sport,” Harley beamed, the victor. “Who wants to do it again? Just beginning to get the hang of it. Tuck ‘er under your right elbow; that's the ticket."
“I'll try it again, your way,” Clare said, picking himself up from the turf, with Belle tugging at one hand and Sara at the other. “And I'll unseat you if we have to joust all afternoon."
It soon began to seem as if they would. Two more times Harley sent Clare flying from his saddle.
“Are you glued to that damned horse?” Clare demanded. He was streaked with grass and dirt from head to toe but picked himself up to go again.
“I've thrown you three times. That's enough,” Harley decided. “There's no competition here.” He hopped down from his mount and went to Miss Fairmont. “Where exactly do you and your brothers live, Miss Fairmont?” he asked.
Clare listened in consternation as she told him, and in pique when she suggested he must come down and have a go at it with her brothers. I believe she's trying to make me jealous, he thought. He did not yet acknowledge that she was succeeding.
“I'll toss Peters once more for practice, then we'll go on to the pistol match,” Harley said, and the arrogant fellow made good his boast. The others were all tired of hitting the ground, so Harley was the winner of the jousting tournament. He seemed to have forgotten he was representing Lady Honor, for he never once looked towards her for commendation. He was too busy congratulating himself, but she had wandered off to examine the weeds in Clare's grass and didn't notice.
“We've missed this round, but the pistol match is a shoe-in for us,” Clare assured his lady. “Can't expect to win ’em all,” he added when she showed no enthusiasm.
“Your face is dirty,” she replied.
“Rub it off, will you?” he said and handed her his handkerchief.
She dabbed at his cheek in exquisite embarrassment, while Belle looked on in envy. The targets were set up, the pistols loaded, and an ear-shattering interlude of pistols going off at no great distance from them was enjoyed by the onlookers. Sherry stuck her fingers in her ears and closed her eyes, and passed the interval in this interesting manner. Clare, who made a fetish of his shooting, was the winner by a wide margin, and the tournament was over. Of all the contenders, it was only he who came to report to his lady at the termination of each event.
“I am expecting something better than a weed for my reward this time,” he told Ella.
“We didn't bother to make up any prizes,” she replied.
Belle, who was never far from their side, told them that the lady's hand was the prize in days of yore.
“It wasn't that kind of contest,” Sherry shouted, thunderstruck at the stupidity of Belle, who thought she was so knowing.
“A pity,” Clare murmured, throwing a teasing look at Sherry.
She said ‘oh', and ran to her Mama to report this latest turn of events.
“But the imaginative Miss Fairmont will think of something,” Clare continued.
The imaginative Miss Prentiss certainly thought of something and wished the lot of bestowing a reward on the winner was hers. Ella turned aside and addressed a remark to Harley.
Refreshments were served under an awning, to preserve the ladies’ complexion from the odd burning rays that might filter through the hazy sky, their bonnets, and parasols. Ella headed for the lemonade, but Clare detained her.
“We victors deserve champagne, don't you think?” He handed her a glass. “To the victor's lady,” he said and drank.
She was aware of everyone watching them, aware too that they all knew he was making sport of her. She swallowed a lump in her throat and sipped a little champagne.
Clare was surprised to see that the more gallant he became, the more she withdrew into herself. He had not much experience with shy ladies. There were so many of the other sort putting themselves in his way, that he had come to believe the breed extinct. In spite of his experience with ladies, he had really very little occasion to court them. They were too busy courting him. It seemed he was actually going to have to pursue the little brown mouse to win her favor. His pride, which he called determination, did not allow him to think of giving it up. He tu
rned to Ella with one of his winsome smiles. “Well, Ella, I hope you enjoyed your contest."
“It has been fine up till now,” she snapped back, her patience becoming exhausted.
This was beginning to sound more like pique than shyness, and he asked bluntly, “Have I inadvertently said—or done—something to offend you? If I have, I beg your pardon."
“No, I don't believe you are doing it inadvertently,” she answered and walked away from him.
He was left standing looking after her, in confusion and some resentment. Belle and Sherry were eager to take her place, and he did not bother Miss Fairmont again that afternoon, but when the refreshments had been partaken of, he walked over and gave Lady Sara his arm for the walk back to the palace.
“Sara, you witch,” he said, with an easy confidence, “have you frightened your niece off from me?"
“Not exactly,” she replied, unoffended.
“But you spoke to her?” She nodded. “May I ask what, exactly, you said?"
“Why, I only told her you are a flirt and a tease, and she must not take your attentions seriously. I felt honor bound to do that much. In spite of her years, she is the veriest greenhead, Clare, and would not understand the way you carry on."
“But I have not been carrying on with her in the least. I thought I had found a friend, and I take it as unkind in you to frighten her away. Friendship is possible between the sexes, don't you think?"
“Very likely. I wouldn't know from experience, and neither would you. But a girl of her age is not looking for friendship in an eligible man. Oh, don't turn white and tremble on me. She isn't setting her cap at you."
“I know. That is why I wonder you found it necessary to speak to her."
“Well, she isn't yet, but if you continue in your quite singular attentions, I can't guarantee she won't get ideas."
