Escapade

by Joan Smith

  Clare was not in his office. He feared it was the first place Strayward would go hunting for him. He stayed abovestairs with his door bolted till twenty minutes past seven. Sherry actually exposed her body and her best peau de soie gown to the elements in an effort to find him. She ventured into the rose garden—such a romantic spot to receive an offer in—but he was not there. She took two steps beyond the crushed shell walks to the lawn beyond, but there was a spot of moisture on the grass, so she came back. Water was fatal to white satin slippers and their paste buckles. Ella and Lady Sara, the former in her good yellow gown she had worn to Almack's, the latter in deep blue crepe and diamonds, went to the saloon at 7:00 and sat conversing with the Dowager Duchess, and looking at Lady Honor, who did not say anything. Mrs. Prentiss and Mrs. Sheridan were also there, sparring with each other, and sitting aside so that they had a view of the hall, and the hunt. The Marchioness was still upstairs with her husband, trying to convince him that Clare had indeed been dangling after Honor in a most marked manner all season.

  “Hunting mares’ nests,” he said, in a voice becoming plaintive from brandy and disappointment.

  “No such a thing,” she maintained inaccurately. “Speak to him after dinner."

  “Hadn't a notion what I was talking about."

  “Pshaw, you have bungled it, Strayward. Put it to him straight. No doubt he misunderstood you."

  “Thought I was talking politics. Never talk politics to a Whig. Whigs don't understand politics. They only want to spoil the farmers and workers by showering them with gold, and to give the Papists in Ireland a lot of power. Nonsense."

  The Straywards did not go downstairs till 7:30. Ten minutes before that, Clare descended and met Sherry just coming in from the east door through the ballroom.

  “Oh, Clare, so that's where you are,” she said, with great relief, and a sharp eye about her for Belle, who had given up her search and gone to the saloon.

  “Yes, have you been looking for me?"

  “I was just wondering where you were, for Mama told me you weren't in the saloon yet, and I could see Belle didn't find you in your study."

  “You have tracked me down now,” he said with a wry smile at her artlessness. “I expect you wanted to give me an opportunity to admire your new gown. It is extravagantly beautiful. Worthy even of you."

  “Oh, do you like it?” she beamed. “It has ten yards of material in it, and took forever to make. It was shockingly expensive, but it doesn't pay to stint on a ball gown.” She whirled around in a circle to let him view her perfection from all angles.

  “Lovely,” he said. Already his senses were sated with her beauty, and he took a step towards the saloon.

  “It has these spangles on the underskirt,” she pointed out, causing him to turn back to render more admiration.

  “Very nice."

  “And I have had these paste buckles put on my slippers. Mama ordered them from London, and we were so afraid they wouldn't arrive in time, but they did.” She stuck out a dainty slipper to be gazed at.

  “Very fine indeed, Sherry. Your Mama has done you proud."

  “Oh, and do you like my hair?” she pressed on. “You will notice I am wearing it in the Méduse. Mama thought it best, since you liked it before."

  “Now, I think we have seen you from head to toe, have we not? You will put them all to the blush. Shall we go and join the others?"

  Sherry could think of no other novelties to show him, and as he had nothing to say to her, she took his arm, and smiled blightingly at Belle as she paraded in, hanging on his arm.

  For a moment, Belle's heart panicked. That proprietary smile! She had got an offer! She could not remain in doubt and immediately arose from her seat, in the middle of a conversation with the Duchess, and hastened to Sherry and Clare.

  “What has kept you so long? It's nearly time for dinner."

  “Clare has been giving me so many compliments; we have been standing in the hall these ten minutes together."

  Relief surged in Belle's bosom. Not an offer then. She relaxed visibly, taking a deep breath. “Have you been to the ballroom, Clare? Isn't it handsome? How busy we have been, fixing it up for you."

  “Yes, I have been in. It has never looked finer. Pray accept my congratulations and gratitude."

  “The roses are half-wilted,” Sherry said. “I noticed just now as I came in."

  “In?” Belle asked. “Were you two outside?” This opened up alarming possibilities.

  “No, I was out for a breath of air,” Sherry confessed, then got her own back by adding, “and the roses are all wilted. You must have forgotten to water them."

  Clare became bored with their squabbling and sauntered off.

  “Now see what you've done,” Belle said angrily. “He will go straight to Miss Fairmont. I don't know what he sees in her."

  “Whatever it is, Peters sees it, too. He is always at her side."

  “Oh, Peters—who cares for him?"

  While they spoke of other members of the party, their eyes never left Clare, following his elegant black back, to see in whose direction he would walk.

  “There, Honor has nabbed him on his way past,” Sherry said, rather unnecessarily, as Belle could see it for herself. “And her Papa is come, you know. Do you think he was summoned to receive an offer?"

  “I don't doubt he came in expectation of it, but I'll warrant he wasn't summoned. Clare was as surprised as we were at luncheon, when it was said Strayward was coming."

  “I cannot think he cares for her, even though her papa is a marquis. Her gowns are frightful."

  “Oh, Clare is not impressed by fine feathers,” Belle laughed, running her eye over Sherry's elaborate ensemble. “Or spangles either.” She turned and headed in Lady Honor's direction, wearing a rather plain gown herself. Sherry was right behind her, but by the time they reached Lady Honor, Clare had detached himself from her and taken the seat vacated by Belle, next to his mother. It was now impossible to sit at his elbow without asking a footman to drag up a chair for them, so they had to find a seat elsewhere.

  Lady Sara and Ella had been watching their performance with interest and exchanged a silent, knowing glance. Ella also cast a few covert looks at Clare, but other than bowing to her upon his entrance, he had not singled her out at all. She was still thinking of the strange remark he had made in the rose garden, but he appeared to have forgotten it. A moment later the Marquis and his wife entered the saloon. Though it was now time for dinner, everyone had to wait while Strayward had another glass of brandy, and he was in no hurry to knock it off, either.

  Foreseeing there would be no opportunity to sound Clare out on his intentions over dinner, for of course they'd have a lady between them, Strayward determined to do it before. Less shy than the young ladies, he did pull a chair up to Clare's side, and said in a low voice, “Deuced hard to get a minute in private for our little chat.” Clare gave him a look of unveiled hate. He should have told him directly the first time he had no notion of offering for Honor. This was what came of being polite. “About Honor you know,” Strayward added, discomfited by that cold face opposite him. Silly old woman, his wife. Dead wrong about the whole thing.

  “You'd better finish your drink. I believe dinner is waiting."

  “Yes, by Jove. We'll discuss it later, heh?"

  “I can think of nothing you and I have to discuss, sir,” Clare said frigidly.

  Strayward tossed off the rest of his brandy, and everyone went to dinner. The first course passed easily, but when it was removed and the game birds and mutton served, Strayward returned to the attack, in spite of Lady Sara's body, which was lodged between Clare and himself. He was well laced with liquor by now, his head foggy. From across the table his wife kept staring at him, tossing her head and darting her eyes towards Clare, in a meaningful and commanding fashion.

  “Devilish fine place you have here, Clare,” he began slyly.

  “Thank you."

  “Fine old family too, the Beresfords
. An old and noble line, like the Sedgleys."

  “Yes, our title dates from Norman times."

  “The old and noble families should stick together."

  “They usually do,” Clare replied offhandedly.

  “Never been any connection between our two houses,” Strayward went on. “Deuced odd when you come to think of it. I'm connected one way or another with twenty of the noble families, my wife tells me, and I daresay you are too, yet there's no connection between our two houses."

  “Our political leanings perhaps account for it,” Clare suggested, wishing to stress their differences, and even more to change the subject entirely. “I hear Bathurst has..."

  “I never talk politics with Whigs,” Strayward stated flatly.

  “By all means let us discuss something else. Do you think Bonaparte..."

  “What I was going to say,” Strayward interrupted loudly, “about our two houses, no connection between them. An odd thing."

  “Yes, it is strange."

  “Ought to make a connection,” Strayward said, skating precariously close to his object now.

  Clare willed down his rage. It was not only the idea that repelled him, but the man's pushing it in public, in a loud carrying voice. And he was so foxed there was no hope of giving him a set-down. “Nowadays, of course, peoples’ feelings come into it. It is not like the old days when marriages were arranged."

  He was quite sure Sara was smiling into her serviette, while she pretended to wipe her mouth. Further down the table, he encountered a look from Ella. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders in a helpless gesture, and she frowned heavily at him. Then Peters, on her left, addressed some remark to her, and she began talking to him. This too enraged Clare for some reason.

  Strayward kept talking on in this vein, very loudly, throughout the remainder of the meal. Short of telling him to shut up, there seemed no way of silencing him. No topic introduced could seduce him from his aim. And to add to the general horror of the meal, every person at the table but the Straywards was ill at ease. He received consoling looks from Tredwell and his Mama, but through it all, Honor shoveled in food, without saying a word to her partner on either side. One had to admire her sang-froid. Say that at least for breeding. Those other two commoners, Belle and Sherry, were rolling their eyes and giggling, while their Mamas scarcely ate a bite, for fear of missing a word. One more scandal to rock London, if Prattle ever got hold of it. Prattle too had her ears stretched, but no thought of publicizing this interesting interlude entered her head. Clare was fading from her column. His name had not appeared since the day Ella went to his orphanage, but what would have appeared by now in London was the column about Prissie—and how Ella dreaded the day it reached Clare's eyes. It would be in Dorset by tomorrow, but she would be gone before its arrival, as they meant to take an early departure.

  Strayward continued, pushing the idea of the two houses being joined, in a manner becoming more obvious by the minute. Dinner was nearly over—the sweet half-eaten, and Clare hoped to get the ladies off to the saloon before Strayward put it into so many words, as he quite clearly meant to do. Certain members of the party had a strong desire to hear Strayward go his length, and when the tray of pastries was passed for the second time, Mrs. Prentiss accepted a cream bun, and Mrs. Sheridan a mille feuilles so the whole party settled down for another ten minutes.

  “Lean forward and protect me, Sara,” Clare said to his dinner companion in a desperate voice.

  “Hiding behind a woman's skirts?” she teased. She hadn't enjoyed herself so for years.

  “It's that or a public announcement that I have no desire to marry his daughter."

  “You're for it, my boy. He has no intention of letting you off the hook."

  “And I no intention of being caught."

  “I say, Clare,” Strayward broke in on their chat, straining his neck forward to catch a glimpse of his quarry. “As I was saying, Clare, what do you think of it, you and Honor?"

  The entire room fell silent. Not so much as a breath or a tinkle of silver on china was heard. Everyone was on tiptoe to hear Clare's reply. “A delightful idea,” he said, in a voice as smooth as silk, “but I fear my fiancée might dislike it."

  Into the quiet a babble of voices was unleashed—questions, exclamations, even a shriek or two from the vicinity of the Misses Sheridan and Prentiss. Honor looked up in surprise, though she didn't say anything or stop chewing. Clare glanced at Strayward, who said only, “Oh, I see,” in pretty good spirits, then turned his attention to his wine glass.

  “Well done!” Sara congratulated Clare. He exhaled and clenched his fist in his lap to stop its shaking.

  His relief was short-lived. An announcement of this magnitude was not easily forgotten. The ladies, and even the gentlemen, pressed forward enquiries as to the identity of the fiancée.

  “No, an announcement is premature,” Clare parried. “The lady has not accepted yet."

  “Doing it too brown,” Harley jeered.

  “Too thick and rare,” Peters seconded.

  “Come on, out with it, Pa'k,” Bippy urged. “Fancy we have a pretty good idea."

  Upon hearing that he had not yet been accepted, Belle realized at once it was not Sherry, as she had first feared. On second consideration, she reached the conclusion that the only reason he had not been accepted was that he had not asked anyone. “Is she at this table?” she asked mischievously. Ever alert and scheming, she knew he had not offered, but felt he might very well offer for someone after this night's debacle. She was still in the running.

  “What is that old saw about curiosity killing the cat?” he asked evasively.

  “The old saw is ‘Curiosity killed the cat, and satisfaction brought it back,’ she quoted laughingly. “It can't be Sherry; she would have accepted."

  Clare directed a malevolent stare down the table at her.

  “So would you,” Sherry shot back.

  “Oh, you are funning us,” Belle continued. “Anyone would have you."

  “What do you say to that, Miss Fairmont?” Clare asked.

  “I disagree,” she said quietly.

  “It's you,” Belle shouted in an accusing tone to Ella, her eyes flashing.

  “This is one of Clare's little jokes,” Ella replied, ready to sink from humiliation.

  “I made sure it couldn't be her,” Sherry said disparagingly, just as though Ella were not there.

  It was Ella's turn to be furious. Her anger was about evenly distributed between Sherry and Lord Clare, who had put her in this hateful position.

  “You are mistaken,” Clare said quietly to Sherry, in a very cold voice. Every eye at the table flew to his face to read whether he was serious. This verified, the eyes slewed to Miss Fairmont. She felt very like a wild animal at Exeter Exchange, with the crowds staring at it for amusement.

  “Well, and what is your answer, Miss Fairmont?” Belle asked.

  “What is the question?” she replied.

  “Will you marry Clare, of course."

  “He has not asked me, and this is all a very bad joke."

  “I knew he hadn't asked her,” Sherry told Belle, in no inaudible tone.

  Clare felt a pronounced desire to walk down the table and box Sherry's beautiful ears. “No, it is no joke, Ella,” Clare said, smiling in embarrassment at such an unlikely manner of proposing. “It was very remiss of me to be sure, to announce our engagement before making a proper offer. Will you do me the honor to be my wife?"

  “No, Your Grace, I will not,” she said firmly. The whole table, including Clare, sat in a state of shock. Miss Fairmont laid down her serviette, pushed back her chair, and marched from the room, before the tears spurted out of her eyes. She had never been so angry, so ashamed in her life.

  “I'll go to her,” Sara said to Clare.

  “No, let me,” Clare replied, and excusing himself, he hastened out the door after her. He caught her just at the foot of the great stairway, on her way to her room.

>   “Ella, I'm sorry,” he said, with a half-laugh at the mess he had made of it.

  She looked at him as though seeing some strange and unpleasant sight for the first time in her life.

  “You will live to be a good deal sorrier, my lord,” she replied, in a tight, angry voice.

  “If you don't kill me first. Come into the study. We can't talk here."

  “We have nothing to say to each other."

  “Come,” he urged, clamping a hand around her wrist, and drawing her to the nearest room, a little study frequented by his Mama on winter afternoons. “I am damnably sorry, Ella. I don't know what possessed me to do it. It was Strayward being so persistent, and Sherry..."

  “You had no right to drag my name into it. To embarrass and humiliate me in front of all those people!” She let her anger surge forth, as it kept her tears in check.

  He put his two hands on her arms, below the shoulders. “Are you really so humiliated, to receive an offer from me?” he asked, in a soft wheedling voice, full of confidence.

  “Yes! Such an offer, made in jest, to save your own skin!"

  “But I was in earnest, Ella. I said we should continue our discussion again."

  “Oh!” she looked to see if he was, if he could possibly be serious.

  He laughed—a mixture of triumph and amusement, tolerant amusement. It never entered his head she would refuse. He had not meant to be offensive at such a critical juncture, but for her to receive such an odd proposal, and to see no humility whatsoever in the eyes of the supposed lover, gave a great deal of offense. “Well, you warned me you would not have me,” he laughed, sliding his hands down her arms until he held both her hands in his, “but I will not hold you to it."

  “Don't cringe in your boots, Clare. It does not become one of your monstrous arrogance. I do not mean to accept you, so you needn't worry."