by Joan Smith
“I thought it might be effective if I—ah—hesitated a little, as though I could not bear to sever such a lovely head from its shoulders. Then too it will prolong that really minuscule part you have given me. No more than a walk-on."
“That is an excellent idea, and you might say—well, what you just said, about severing such a lovely head."
“Not historically accurate, I fear."
“There is no way of knowing at this late date what was actually said. When I spoke of historical accuracy, I was referring to the general lines of the story—the names of the characters involved, and the dates, and so on. We must add the little realistic touches to make it..."
“Realistic,” Bippy supplied.
“Yes, that's what I meant."
“Jolly good idea."
“And I shall put in your idea too, Ella, and make myself more conniving."
“That was the Duchess's idea,” Bippy pointed out.
Belie smiled and thanked them all for their help, while wondering at their temerity in telling her how to write a play.
At the termination of the discussion, Sherry came forward from the end of the table holding the Observer in her hands. “Only see what that horrid Prattle has said about us today,” she chirped, pink with pleasure to see her exploits mentioned in print again.
Belle was so eager she dropped her manuscript all over the floor in an effort to wrest the paper from Sherry. Ella's mind leapt back to what column this would be and tried to make herself inconspicuous. Belle, whose voice was up to anything, took it upon herself to read once more.
“She has left all those blank letters, but I'll supply names,” she explained before beginning. “This is what she says—it's about the picnic. ‘London may now breathe a sigh of relief. At last we have word of the wondrous doings in Dorset, at the palace of the Duke of Clare. The promised picnic was held in the Chinese Pavilion, where English food was served to English guests on English dishes by English servants.’ How strange! What does she mean by that?"
“It's taking a knock at my Chinese pavilion,” Clare explained. “Did it expect us to eat rice with chopsticks?"
“I should say not,” Sherry replied. “I would be bound to drop it all over and ruin my gown."
“But then you would have the pleasure of changing your gown,” Clare said.
Belle continued: “'The hedonists, not satisfied with a picnic, were later regaled with a frog-jumping contest.'” Turning aside she said, “She doesn't mention that it was your idea, Ella. ‘The contestants were not even thoroughbreds, but having been reared in the Duke of Clare's pond, some blue blood may have seeped into their veins. Mr. Peters’ Green Boy was the winner by a length, and it is being said around town that Lady Honor's nag did not leave the gate. One wonders whether there was not some Strayward blood in that frog.’”
“Oh, how horrid!” Sherry gasped, with a fearful look at Lady Honor, who dozed on oblivious. “We must not let her see this column. She will be so angry."
“Not she,” Clare contradicted.
“There's more,” Sherry announced, and continued reading. “'We have it on the best authority that a trip to the local village is planned, and an evening dancing party with guests from the neighborhood. So far, the host has been in attendance, in body if not in mind."'
“That is too bad of her,” Sherry said to Clare. “What does she mean?"
“I don't believe it approves of our entertainment. It expected a round of formal balls and fêtes champêtres no doubt,” Clare replied, concealing a twinge of anger at the justified criticism. “Is there more, or does it save the rest of its space for London doings?"
“A little more,” Sherry replied. “'The undoubtedly bored guests may take consolation from the fact that the play at Covent Gardens ...’ Oh, she only goes on to pan the play, and say who was there. Well, shall we go on with Act II of my play? I have started it."
“Why don't you save your voice to sing to us this evening?” the Duchess replied very promptly. “Your first act was very enjoyable. Just give your Anne a little sharper tongue, and you will have a good play there. Do you want to come along to the library with me now, Ella, and I'll give you those books I was speaking about?"
Happy for any excuse to avoid further readings from Anne Boleyn, Ella hopped up and set off with the Duchess.
“Don't forget to give her Kant, too,” Clare called after his mother.
“Pest of a boy,” she grumbled, and gave not another thought to Immanuel Kant or his writings. She did spare a passing thought for her son though. Odd he should be pushing his dull old books onto Ella. He only did that with people he cared for. Yes, he was coming to like the girl better than he knew.
When Mr. Shane handed a heavy tome bound in Russian leather to Miss Fairmont, explaining it was the book His Grace said she wished to read, the Dowager laughed and said merrily, “He means to improve your mind, Ella, whether you like it or no.” Why, the rascal had made a special trip to the library, and if that didn't mean he was interested, she was no judge of her own son. She bent her mind to helping the affair along and decided Miss Fairmont must know something of Patrick's better nature.
During the morning the threatening clouds blew away, and it was decided to leave for the village early and stop for lunch at the Green Man. A little sight-seeing at the church, the river, and a visit to the roundhouse by the gentlemen were to make up the afternoon. When the disposition of carriages was being discussed, Lady Honor materialized at Clare's side.
“I will go with you,” she told him.
“Very well,” he said curtly, with the briefest of glimpses towards Ella, just enough to make her think he had been about to ask her to go with him. “I'm taking the curricle,” he added, hoping to make her change her mind.
“Yes,” she replied, unblinking.
With Clare's partner taken care of in a manner to neither please nor yet quite displease them, Belle and Sherry could chat quite amicably and decide that they would go with Bippy and Peters, for neither one was willing to risk her neck with Lord Harley, who was known to drive like a man demented.
“You come with me and Belle,” Bippy said to Ella. “You won't want to ride with that hellcat of a Harley. He'll be racing any rig or farmer's gig he overtakes on the road. Ain't safe."
“All right,” she agreed.
“Deuce take it,” Harley stormed. “You've got one girl, Tredwell. No need to go turning Miss Fairmont against me. That's the way you all feel about it, I won't go at all. Rather do a bit of shooting anyway, if it's all right with you, Pa'k."
“You could do with the practice,” Clare replied. “But don't go shooting the glass out of the windows as you did at Tredwell's hunting lodge."
“You know perfectly I was ape—that is to say, ain't such a gudgeon as that."
“Well, now, it seems you've gone and made your plans without considering us,” the Dowager said, coming up to the group with Lady Sara.
“Will you mind taking your own carriage, Mama? We're all taking our curricles, and you won't like that."
“It's coming around. Lady Sara is coming with me, and we hoped Ella would accompany us old fogies to keep us amused. You won't like being wedged three in a curricle, my dear. Come along in a civilized carriage with us."
“Perhaps Lady Honor would like the closed carriage,” Clare suggested hopefully.
“No, I will go with you,” she stated firmly and took his arm.
“Come along, Ella,” the Duchess said, as her chaise was drawn up the drive. Everyone piled into their chosen vehicles, with the Duchess's the last to leave.
“I have a little business to transact in the village,” the Duchess confessed to her companions. “Won't take very long. You can drop me off at the orphanage, and I'll have Wooster pick me up in half an hour. Or perhaps you'd like to see my son's children?” she added as an afterthought, though it had been her intention all along to show his philanthropy off to Ella.
Lady Sara's eyes nearly started from her he
ad, then she laughed. “Lord, what a start you gave me, Ma'am. He supports the orphanage, I collect?"
“Yes, he is the founder and sole supporter of the Dorset Home for Boys. He is having a new wing built, which is why he came to Clare at this time. I told him I'd stop off to pick up some papers that Ulmhorn, the manager, wants him to see. He doesn't want the others to know about it..."
“Well, it is surely nothing to be ashamed of!” Lady Sara said.
“It's not modesty, Lady Sara. Once it got talked up that he is bankrolling the place, there would be a hundred organizations after him. That is why he keeps it quiet. The fact is, he was fleeced of quite a large sum by setting up a place in Wiltshire, and he wants to keep his charities centered around home, where he can keep an eye on them. I tell him he is ashamed to let the world know how he mistreats the poor little rascals. Only funning, you know."
When all three were deposited at the door of a large red brick building and ushered in by an obsequious Ulmhorn, there was no fault to be found in the home provided to the parentless boys. Three rooms of them were bent over their books with masters attendant, and another lot were being released for a turn in the yard. The Dowager declined a tour of the building, which her guests would rather liked to have seen, and excused herself to go into an office with Ulmhorn, while a matron brought tea to the other ladies. But they were little interested in tea. They preferred to stroll around and examine everything.
“Here's a plaque. Some sort of dedication,” Sara said.
Ella trailed over to read it. “'This home founded in memory of Joseph Beresford, Duke of Clare, who died in 1808,'” she read. “It's very short, isn't it?"
“What more is there to say?"
“It must be very expensive to keep up,” Ella said in a low voice.
“Well, love, he isn't exactly a pauper, you know."
“All the boys look well fed and nicely clothed. Not like some of the orphanages one sees. Remember the one near Fairmont?"
“It doesn't have a noble patron."
“No.” Ella looked around. “Sara, I feel terrible."
“What, are you ill?"
“No, I mean about all the awful things I have written about Patrick—Clare."
Sara noticed the Patrick, but chose to ignore it. “Well, he does squander a shocking amount of money on himself as well."
“Yes, but I had no idea he did anything like this. He is very generous, and I have made such fun of him. Besides, I see now that I have observed him at close range that those nasty things he says—well, whomever he says them to always deserves them. It must be very trying to be always chased after by women."
“I can think of worse fates. Not to be chased, for instance."
“Be serious, Sara. What am I to do?"
No advice was given, for at that moment the Duchess came out of a door and joined them for a cup of tea. “Mr. Ulmhorn is tallying up some accounts, so I'll join you for a moment,” she said. “What do you think of the place?"
“Your son is not the fashionable fribble he would have us believe,” Lady Sara returned.
The Duchess smiled softly to herself. “He saves his idiocies for London. At home he behaves just as he ought. His next project is to set up a place similar to this for girls. Why should they be left to fend for themselves, poor tykes? The females are the ones who need help, and so I tell him. We can't harbor them all at Clare. I have six more girls than I need right now, and if he don't get busy and set up a house for them, I'll do it myself, though my purse isn't so deep as his. The last girl who came to us is a sad case. Muckleton is the name."
Ella stared, her pulse racing, but the lady continued on, unnoticing. “Her Papa works for us, in the stables—a widower. His daughter, Prissie, was left home to mind the two boys, and a wretched old neighbor took to pestering her. Would have assaulted her, I think, but the two little boys—they're only eight and nine—beat him off with pots and pans. They had the presence of mind to notify their father, who told Clare all about it. We've taken Prissie in for the time being, and the boys are here. She is very pretty, and the best thing would be to find a husband for her, that she might give them a home. It won't be hard. What a havoc as she is creating among the footmen! But I think it is the ferrier who has the inner track. Ah, here is Ulmhorn already, with the bills.” She arose and went back into his office.
Ella felt as though the bottom had fallen out of her stomach. She had believed that of Clare! Had been rude and offensive to him, and—oh God! The column she had sent in. Announced to the world that he was a philanderer, and on Belle Prentiss's say-so.
“Oh, Sara,” she wailed. “What have I done?” But Sara, alas, was not aware of that particular column. She had been so eager to vilify him that she had sealed it up and posted it off without showing it to her mentor.
“You have been mistaken in him. It's not your fault."
“Oh,” she moaned, and couldn't find the strength to confess.
“Perk up, my girl. She'll be back soon, and how are we to account for your vapors?"
“I can't face her."
“Don't be such a wet goose, Ella. She has taken a great fancy to you, and don't think that will do you any harm in Clare's eyes, for he is very close to his Mama. You might get him yet.” It was the first time Sara had mentioned such a high hope to her niece, and she looked for some reaction. The wilting face on her niece was not the reaction she expected, and she rallied her. “You make too much of the column, Ella. He took it in quite good part this morning, didn't you think? I think he rather appreciated that bit about Honor's Frog not moving, though he was too well-bred to show it."
“Oh, I wish I had never heard of Prattle."
“You're not all of Prattle. Mama and I do a bit too."
“I am the Prattle who has pilloried Clare."
“He's none the worse for it."
“He will be! He hates her, you know. He goes on saying little things..."
“Nothing can be done about the past, Ella, though I begin to think it is time to retire Prattle."
“We have a contract till the end of the Season."
“Drink your tea. She'll be back in a moment."
In fact, it was several moments before the Duchess returned, allowing aunt and niece time for more discussion of the same fruitless sort. Sara had her own ideas why they had been brought to the orphanage, and her hopes were riding so high that she did not quite realize the depths of Ella's feelings. She was ridden with guilt and remorse but could see no way to undo the harm she had done. No further accounts of Clare would be included in Prattle, but that was so small a drop of balm as to do no good whatsoever.
“We'd better hustle,” the Duchess said when she came back to them.
“You—you must be very proud of your son,” Ella said in a small voice, as they went back to the carriage.
“So I am, but mind you don't tell him so. We wouldn't want his head getting too big."
They proceeded on their way to the village.
“Ah, there is Tredwell's rig. Let us get down and join the others. We shan't say where we've been. I'd just as lief you not mention it to my son either,” the Duchess said.
The group was reunited for a stroll through very inferior shops, where not even Miss Sheridan could find any allurement for her frocks except a few yards of pink ribbon, and Belle was limited to the purchase of a set of colored patent pens to decorate the cover for her play on Anne Boleyn. Lady Honor, looking neither to right nor left, pulled Clare up and down aisles with her. “We will go now,” she decided, when she had completed her unseeing tour. “I am ready for lunch."
“I hope your shopping spree has given you a good appetite,” Clare said.
“I didn't buy anything,” she remarked.
“No doubt the shops are better around Strayward,” he smiled.
“Yes."
The party occupied the largest private parlor at the inn, and made merry for an hour over a cold luncheon, before flocking to see the church, where the martyr
s’ tombs were considered to be the showpiece. Belle regretted she had not come prepared for taking rubbings of the brasses. Outside, Ella suggested that it would be a fit subject for sketching, with its interesting Norman architecture and little row of miniature statues.
“Not for you, Ella,” Clare said, “too demanding. Remember Nellie's tower.” He had taken up a post beside her in the church, and as she was not snubbing him today, he continued on there.
Ella was in despair. Her peace was ruined, but life must go on. She pushed her troubles to the back of her mind and determined to be as charming a partner as possible during these few occasions when she would be with Clare. “I think it was the tilt of Crazy Nellie's Tower that defeated me. I daresay I could do this building very well."
“Let us stroll on and see the view from the bridge over the river,” he said, offering her his arm. She was quiet, for the echo of her abuse of him would keep rising in her mind. They had to walk right past the orphanage to reach the river, but they neither of them glanced to the left. In fact, Clare made a point of showing her a milliner's shop on the right as they passed by. “I'm glad Sherry isn't with us, or we'd be hauled in to watch her try on bonnets,” he said.
“I can't think she needs any more. She brought seven with her."
“You can't expect her to repeat herself. In bonnets I mean."
“You are being horrid, and don't expect me to stoop to talking about her behind her back. If I were half so pretty, I would wear a new bonnet every day, too."
“Then I thank God you are not."
“So do not I!"
“What, still bemoaning your insignificant little face?” He peered at it while he delivered this amiable insult. It appeared less insignificant than formerly. Almost its planes were taking on a pleasing air for him.
“No, and please don't tell me beauty is only skin deep. I know it already. And much good it does, when our eyes only see skin deep. What is the point in having a pretty skeleton, or set of veins, I should like to know."
“I believe you are misunderstanding the point of that particular homily. It refers to character, or some such thing."
