by Joan Smith
Another wave of remorse washed over her. “Very likely,” she agreed humbly.
“I think you are unconscionably hard to please, Ella. Here am I wearing myself to the bone trying to please you—and having very poor luck, I might add. Harley was sore as a boil that you wouldn't ride in his curricle; Tredwell asked you to go in his carriage. Pretty well for a girl who likes to complain about being plain."
“Yes, you are all very kind,” she said.
“Lord, next you'll be accusing us of charity.” This topic was too prickly to be pursued at all, so they watched a squirrel instead, till they were caught up by the others.
It was Lady Sara and the Dowager who overtook them first. “Great luck, Ella,” the Duchess said. “You'll never guess what I found at the book store. Another by Miss Austen. Sense and Sensibility it's called. Are you familiar with it?"
“Yes, and it's good too, only not quite so good as the other. Still, I think you'll enjoy Mrs. Dashwood. She is a marvelous harpy."
“I like the title. That promises a good conflict of personalities. Oh, there is Miss Sheridan with a huge parcel. She must have found a mirror she couldn't resist."
“Mama!” Clare warned.
“I have bought the loveliest bonnet,” Sherry gushed, running forward to impart her news. “Would you like to see it?” She was already untying the string.
“Why don't you wait till we get home, dear?” the Duchess said in the sweetest voice in the world. “You will want to get it set on your head properly with the help of a mirror or two, before you model it for us."
“Yes,” Sherry agreed, “for it sits at an angle, so sweet, only I haven't decided whether to wear it perched over the left or right eye."
“You will have to give that a good deal of consideration,” she was advised by the irrepressible Duchess. “Have your woman take you up an extra brace of candles to give you a good view."
“Thank you, ma'am. I do find it a little hard to see if I am tidy, for my mirror is in quite a dark corner."
“What a shame!"
“But Mama's room has very good lighting, so I usually go in there for the finishing touches when I am dressing in the evening."
“So that is how you achieve such an admirable effect,” Clare congratulated her. She beamed happily. “Sherry has found a new bonnet, Ella. Didn't I prophesy she would be interested in the millinery shop?"
Sherry felt a surge of triumph when Ella frowned at him. How ludicrous of Belle to think they had anything to fear from this plain-faced little creature. “Did you really, Clare?” she asked. “But you know I am not so lofty as to think only London or Paris could produce a bonnet worthy of me."
“I bet you could find a suitable bonnet anywhere,” Clare said and turned again to admire the view of the river.
Lady Honor, Belle, Peters, and Tredwell strolled along next, and everyone had to wait a while till Belle had jotted down a few notes for a sonnet she meant to compose on the view, then tell her whether the trees she was admiring were willows or elms or beech, and where was east and west, and what were those lovely little yellow flowers called.
“For I like to get everything accurate, you know."
The gentlemen could not forego a stop at the roundhouse, and after this they all returned to the palace. They passed a quiet evening of charades and word games, which diverted Ella's mind from her troubles, and she became quite lively, not once insulting Clare. When he found an opportunity to speak to her privately, he said, “All over your sulks, Ella?"
“I can't think what you mean,” she said, in guilty confusion.
“Hmm. No doubt I imagined that cold shoulder you were showing me yesterday.” She shook her head and smiled in terrible embarrassment.
“No, seriously, I wish you will tell me."
“It—it was nothing."
“A misunderstanding perhaps?” he asked helpfully.
“Yes,” she grasped at this thin straw.
“I see.” He supposed Sara had said something more to her than she admitted, but at least she must have unsaid it, whatever it was. “Are we all straightened then? Still friends?"
“Yes, certainly,” she said, feeling like the worst traitor ever.
“Good,” he smiled one of his intimate, devastating smiles, the memory of which kept her awake for hours.
Chapter Twelve
The next day was the last one prior to departure from the palace. No lady had received an offer, or anything remotely resembling one. Belle and Sherry were becoming desperate, and even Honor felt an uneasiness which she did not recognize as impatience. Ella too was uneasy, for reasons different from the others. The large ball was to be held that evening, and with their toilettes to prepare, the ladies required no other pastime but to help out a little with the decoration of the ballroom and continue wooing the host.
It was Belle who organized the young group after breakfast to gather flowers. In vain did the Duchess tell her they usually just brought in pots from the greenhouse. She had already sent for baskets and shears, determined to destroy the rose garden. She garnered Clare to her side for the purpose of selection and a-cutting she would go. Lady Honor took no part in this outing. She went with a book to the drawing room and sat with it open all morning, though she did not turn any pages. Miss Sheridan was fidgety and ill-natured. She was by no means sure a mere afternoon in papers would set her curls bouncing as she liked, but on the other hand, it would be madness to let Belle have Clare to herself all morning. She went along, but she was in the sulks and took to silent pouting when Belle chastised her for cutting the roses with stems only three inches long. Clare did not stand up for her in the least, and she soon flounced off to her room in high dudgeon to have a quick bout with the papers before luncheon.
“Old silly,” Belle said when she was gone, with a sly glance at Clare. “I shudder to think of the poor man who ends up with her for a wife. She has no idea of anything but bonnets and gowns."
“But you must own,” he replied, “she is an expert on that."
“Yes,” Belle replied prettily, “by beginning now she will have the grandest outfit of us all."
Ella had her back to the pair, trying to deter Harley from adding poison ivy to his bouquet, but she overheard the conversation and could only wonder at Belle's folly. Nothing was more likely to put a gentleman off than to hear one lady rip apart another in the latter's absence. She had always assumed Belle to have the inner track with Clare. It had appeared so in London, but since coming to Dorset, she was seeing all these people in a new light.
Sherry was as beautiful at close range as from afar, but when one came to realize the expenditure of time and energy that went into her magnificent appearance, one could not take her seriously. She was a beautiful shell, ravishing at all times, with every hair in place, but it was a full-time job to keep her in looks, and so she hadn't a moment for conversation or diversion—the epitome of what Hannah More wrote about. Belle was as clever and talented as one had always supposed, yet her cleverness was too widely spread, and too thinly spread too. She did everything poorly—wrote, sketched, sang, played, danced, rhymed. And Lady Honor, on the other hand, did nothing. It was clear to her why Clare hesitated in conferring his golden apple. He might opt for looks, cleverness or breeding, but whichever he chose, he would get nothing else.
Harley had moved on from poison ivy to weeds, and she had to stop him again. “That is not a flower,” she said, pulling a dandelion from his careless armful of blooms.
“No, really. Dashed pretty thing. No one will notice it ain't a flower."
“Yes, but it smells after it has been inside a while."
“All flowers smell."
“Dandelions smell badly. They stink,” she said, when he did not appear to understand her first utterance.
“Really? Well I never knew that before. You are full of all kinds of useful information, Miss Fairmont. Maybe you could tell us what to feed Green Boy. Peters’ frog is looking pulled today, I can tell you."
&
nbsp; Peters turned to them at the sound of his name and joined the conversation. “He isn't eating a thing. Been off his feed for two days. I hope he don't go and pop off on me before I get him home to breed him."
“No, I can't help you. I told you they always die if you put them in a pail. They eat all sorts of insects, of course, but they never do in captivity. The best thing would be to return him to the pond, and let nature cure him. He's lonesome."
“I'll never find him again,” Peters said, doubtfully.
Harley, away from Ella's scrutiny, grabbed up a bunch of dandelions and added them to his bouquet.
“You may not, but at least he won't be dead, and he surely will be if you try to keep him in a pail. I lost three that way before I gave up on it."
“Ten to one I wouldn't recognize him again if I did happen to spot him. I might tag him, I suppose. Tie some sort of a string around his leg, or a ribbon."
Ella confessed that this idea had never been tried at Fairmont. Peters left the flower-gathering to the others and went to tag his Green Boy. But within minutes he was back with his wooden bucket, requesting Ella's help to hold the fellow's leg, as he wouldn't hold still a second. The others interrupted their flower cutting to watch this performance, and when it was done, Peters and Ella went together to launch Green Boy back into the pond. They each had a hand on the handle of the bucket and were laughing as they went.
“Just like Jack and Jill,” Belle said. Noticing that Clare was frowning after them, she added, “They make a nice couple, don't they? He is becoming quite particular, I have noticed."
“I haven't noticed,” Clare answered.
“Ah, but you have other fish to fry, Clare. How is your other fish, by the way?"
“I beg your pardon?"
“I haven't told a soul! About Prissie I mean."
“So you did see us in the village."
“Oh yes, and here too.” She hadn't meant to say anything to him, but he seemed quite docile today, and she was always eager to show off.
“If you saw her here, I must suppose you have been down to the kitchens. She is working as cook's helper,” he replied dampingly.
Belle realized that Clare would not so abuse one of his flirts, and realized as well that she had misread that whole affair. It had come to nothing in the end, for it had not even turned Miss Fairmont against him, as she had hoped. “I was only funning,” she laughed merrily and nipped into the house to escape any further discussion of the matter.
Bippy Tredwell at once came over to Clare. “Know what I think?” he said. “I think Peters is more taken with Miss Fairmont that he lets on.”
Clare was relieved that the question was about Ella rather than Prissie and replied, “Quite cutting you out, in fact."
“Oh, as to that, you've been cutting me out any time this week. Thought you was developing a tendre for her, but if you ain't...” He stopped, for he just realized from the discomposed scowl on Clare's face that he was right in his assumption. “Always saying he'll have to ask Miss Fairmont this or that or the other. Stood up with her twice at all your dances, and Miss Sheridan was telling me before she left that she hasn't stood up with him once since we've been here. I do think he's making up to her."
“Are you jealous?"
“No, told you it was Platonic with her and me. I ain't jealous."
“Certainly I am not,” Clare assured him with a waving gesture of his hands, and he turned purposefully away from the direction of the pond.
Belle came back and demanded Clare's assistance with a rose whose thorns were particularly severe, so Bippy wandered off to add some ferns to his flowers.
It was more than half an hour later, with all the blooms taken in for Belle and Lady Sara to arrange, that Bippy again went out to the garden. He saw Clare still there, ostensibly admiring his lawn, but looking in the direction of the pond. “Been gone a devil of a long time,” he said.
Clare didn't bother pretending to misunderstand this cryptic statement. “The pond is only three hundred yards away,” he replied.
“Pity we can't see it for that bunch of bushes you have there. Wonder what they're up to."
“It wouldn't take ten minutes to toss Green Boy into the water and get back here."
“No, he's up to something. I'd give a monkey to know what. Wonder if they've taken that raft out for a sail."
“They might have fallen in."
“That's as good an excuse as any to go after them,” Bippy replied, and they strode together at a rapid gait towards the pond.
No such awful fate had befallen the miscreant couple. They had not gone near the raft at all, but were skipping flat stones over the pond, laughing and shouting, and amusing themselves very agreeably.
“So, this is where you've got to,” Bippy charged in an injured tone.
“We came to put Green Boy back in the pond,” Peters said.
“Did that more than half an hour ago,” Bippy said.
“Are we late for lunch?” Ella asked. “Oh, I hope we have not kept everyone waiting. I had no idea it was so late."
“It ain't. We just wondered what was keeping you two."
“We were afraid you might have fallen into the pond,” Clare explained, feeling unaccountably foolish in the face of Bippy's accusing tone.
“This puddle's only two feet deep,” Peters replied. “Said so yourself. We are playing ducks and drakes. Miss Fairmont can skip a stone six times, Pa'k. Did you ever see such a girl? I can't get mine to go more than four."
“You only did that once,” Ella told him. “And I still think that last skip was only a frog surfacing, for it didn't arc at all from the last one."
“No, by Jove, it was four, I swear."
“Don't contradict a lady,” Bippy adjured severely.
“I ain't, only I'm sure it skipped four times."
“You can't do it again anyway,” Ella challenged him.
“I can so, only I'll have to take off this curst jacket. Stultz makes ‘em so tight you can't get a proper throw at all.” He proceeded to remove the jacket, and was roundly roasted when his next stone sank ignominiously immediately it hit the pond, without even one skip.
“It was clearly the coat's fault,” Ella commented.
“Ho, I can do better than that,” Bippy proclaimed.
“You could hardly do worse,” Clare said, reaching down for a stone with which to test his own prowess. It skipped only the once, and Bippy had no better luck when he tried it.
In view of their shocking ignorance of the noble art, Miss Fairmont took pity on them and explained that the secret was in getting the throwing arm laid out at a right angle to the body, so that the stone would skim parallel to the pond's surface. Without the least difficulty, her next stone skipped the pond's surface five times before sinking from sight.
“This girl's double-jointed,” Peters complained. “I can't get my arm out at such an angle to my body. Do it again, will you?"
Ella complied, and again the stone skipped five times.
“The stones are too round, that's the trouble,” Bippy said, when his next effort produced only two hops.
“If they ain't too round for Miss Fairmont, they ain't too round for us,” Peters replied, and on his next throw he repeated his former success of four hops. “Let's see you match that, Clare."
Clare reached down and selected a handful of the flattest stones he could find. His skill was equal to Peters', and a good deal better than Bippy's, but though they all skipped stones and insulted each other mutually for close to half an hour, no one could match Miss Fairmont, who regularly and effortlessly hopped her stones five or six times. She once outdid herself and achieved seven hops. Only Peters saw this feat, and he was reduced to great shame.
“Deuce take it, what a bunch of flats we are, that not one of us three men can equal a girl's record. You must be double-jointed, Miss Fairmont. I swear you've got your arm skewed out at an angle different from the rest of us."
“I have been practicing on a
nd off since I was a child,” she explained in a placating and slightly smug manner.
“So have I,” Peters admitted. “That's no excuse."
“It's us that need an excuse,” Bippy said. “Miss Fairmont don't need an excuse for beating us all hollow."
“No, by Jove, she is always up to anything,” Peters agreed, recovering his spirits. “And she was right about Green Boy, too. He was back in form, snapping up flies and what not within minutes of being put back in the pond. We knew it was him by the string we tied on his leg."
They all began scanning the pond for Green Boy, and while they were engaged in this fruitless task, a footboy came down the hill and summoned them for lunch. Some rather extensive cleaning up was required after their game, and it happened that they all four reached the front hall together about ten minutes later, ready for luncheon. Ella was completely unaware of the consternation she caused when she walked into the small dining hall, accompanied by three of the four gentlemen who made up the party.
Sherry was still pouting and patting her curly locks, but Belle immediately sought to turn attention to its proper quarter. “Have you been in the ballroom admiring our flower arrangements, Clare?” she asked.
“No, but I shall certainly do so after lunch. Sorry we have kept you waiting."
“We've been down at the pond skipping stones,” Peters blurted out, a fact which the more circumspect of the group would have as lief not mentioned. “Miss Fairmont can skip a stone from one side of the pond to the other."
“How talented!” Belle said angrily. “Ella appears to be skilled in the unlikeliest areas. Tell me, Ella, do you sing at all, or paint, or play the pianoforte, or do any of the things ladies usually do?"
“Only a very little,” Ella replied frankly, wondering anew at Belle's spite and lack of finesse in showing it so obviously.
“You must have ruined your gown,” Sherry said. “We can't get the brown spots out of the muslin I wore the day you made us all chase frogs."
“Try lemon juice, dear,” Lady Sara counseled.
“Yes, you brought a whole bag of them with you, didn't you, Sherry, to bleach your freckles?” Belle asked innocently. With time's winged chariot pushing them so mercilessly, they were all on edge and trying any device to detract from the competition.
