by M C Beaton
“Our doctor will do what he is told.” Percy studied Gerald for a few moments and then said, “Very well. But make sure you do not fail. We’d better get Lady Macdonald along as well. The unhappier we keep our little duchess, the better, just in case. You go to Lady Macdonald and get her along.”
“She may have other arrangements.”
“When there’s a chance of her keeping her claws in Ferrant?” sneered Percy. “She’ll come.”
“Who else?” asked Gerald. “I mean, who else is coming?”
“Old Mrs. Tregader and her granddaughter, Miss Isabella, Mr. Fawley and his father, the duke and duchess, Lady Macdonald and yourself, and Mr. and Mrs. Tumley.”
“Sounds awful,” said Gerald, with feeling. “Now try to leave my quarters without being seen by anyone and I will call on Lady Macdonald.”
It was, thought Alice, as they all gathered in Lord Werford’s gloomy drawing room before supper, a party surely arranged in hell. First there was Lady Macdonald, seductive and blooming and witty, then there was Gerald, who kept smiling at her in a way her husband obviously did not like, while the gossipy Tumleys avidly watched everything. Then there was the walking tragedy of Isabella Tregader. Her parents had died and she was being brought out by her horror of a grandmother. Isabella was quite beautiful, but in a washed-out way, as if someone had taken a sponge over a fine painting. Everyone in society knew her grandmother had high ambitions for her. Isabella had been in love with an army captain who had been sent packing by old Mrs. Tregader. Mr. Fawley, thin, effeminate, waspish, and rich, had been chosen for her. Mrs. Tregader was very wealthy but a miser—and wanted more money for her coffers through her granddaughter. Mr. Fawley sat next to Isabella, and she listened to his compliments with her face averted.
Lord Werford approached Gerald and drew him aside. “In the pudding,” he hissed.
“Why not the soup?” muttered Gerald.
“Because I want to enjoy my supper first,” said Lord Werford, with mad logic.
“And how is our little duchess?” Lady Macdonald was asking Alice.
“Very well, I thank you,” said Alice. “And how is our large Lady Macdonald?”
Lady Macdonald laughed merrily. “Ah, my child, I know that jealousy prompted that remark.”
“Really?” said Alice, moving away. “And what prompted yours?”
“If I had known that woman was going to be here,” said Gerald suddenly, next to Alice, “I would have warned you.” He reflected grimly on the amount of persuasion he had to bring to bear on Lady Macdonald to get her to come, Lady Macdonald complaining that the way Ferrant had fled to his wife’s side at the picnic had been humiliating.
“I would really rather not discuss her,” said Alice. “Such a mystery about that pâté this afternoon.”
“What mystery? Some dog near death found the stuff too rich and was put out of its misery.”
“But such a pity you threw the jar on the fire,” said Alice. “There could have been poison in it… and we could have taken it to the pharmacy and had it examined.”
Gerald repressed a shudder. “We are not at war with the French anymore,” he said lightly. “No reason to think they are trying to poison us.”
“Still, it was strange. Edward said you were at a curricle race in Hammersmith.”
“Edward Vere? Yes, I had the pleasure of meeting him there.”
“Edward said you rode off before the start of the race. You were carrying a gun bag.”
“Yes, I had to take my gun for repair.”
“Most gentlemen send their servants on such an errand.”
Gerald forced a laugh. “Gentlemen rub down their horses themselves, and see to their guns themselves, and trust either chore to a servant. Ah, I see we are about to go in for supper,” he added, with relief.
The duke, being the highest in rank, led Alice in. To their surprise they found that Lord Werford favored the old-fashioned seating arrangements, that is, the ladies at one side of the long table and the gentlemen on the other.
“Quite American,” said Alice to Isabella, who was placed next to her.
“Yes,” agreed Isabella, “and in some places the ladies in America even dine separately from the men, drink a great deal, tell coarse stories, and laugh a lot.” She surveyed the tablecloth in silence and then added, “I would very much like to be in America.”
“Is there no chance of your going there?” asked Alice.
“There is no chance of anything in my life—except marriage to the man chosen for me by my grandmother,” said Isabella. “I have a friend in Virginia, now Mrs. Harry Bellman. She was at the ladies’ seminary in Bath with me. She writes to me often asking me to come. If Grandmama died, I would go, and I would sit and drink and laugh with the American ladies and be free. But Grandmama will not die. She will sit managing my life, horrible old toad.”
All this was delivered in a rapid undertone. Alice looked nervously at Isabella. She thought that young lady looked on the point of a complete breakdown.
“My engagement to Fawley is to be announced next week,” went on Isabella. “I have prayed and prayed for God to strike Grandmama dead.”
“And what are you ladies gossiping about?” came the arch voice of Mrs. Tumley on the other side of Alice.
“We do not gossip,” said Alice coldly. “Only empty-headed women do that,” and Mrs. Tumley turned away in a huff to speak to Lady Macdonald.
Lord Werford, at the head of the table, was so slow at serving out the various dishes that all his guests—with the exception of Percy and Gerald—wished he would adopt more modern methods and have his servants pass round the plates, because by the time he had carved and the plates were passed down the table, the food was nearly cold.
Alice looked across the table at her husband, who suddenly smiled sympathetically at her, as if to say, Yes, I know. All this is quite dreadful, and she smiled back at him.
Then she realized that Isabella was still talking. It was as if Isabella had never spoken of her troubles before, and, once started, could not stop. “I was in love with Captain Maltravers,” she said. “But Grandmama put a stop to that. Captain Maltravers married Betty Dance, quite an undistinguished female of no looks and little dowry. He managed to meet me at a party and to whisper, ‘Good-bye.’
“‘Wait,’ I said, ‘only wait. Grandmama cannot live forever.’ But he said, and so bitterly that it nigh broke my heart, ‘Old boot face will live forever.’ So that is how I now think of her. Old boot face. Look at her!”
Mrs. Tregader was at the end of the table, eating her food with great sucking and chomping noises. Bits of food were clinging to her gown and to the collar of dirty diamonds around her neck.
Alice was distracted from Isabella’s complaints as the voice of Lady Macdonald, extolling the joys of Paris, reached her ears. “Of course, the only place to dine is the Rocher de Cancalle in the Rue Mandar,” she was saying. “The cook, Borel, formerly used to cook for Napoléon and he showed me his visitors’ book. Such names! The Duke of Bedford, Charles James Fox, and Robespierre. Of course, some say Beauvilliers in the Rue de Richelieu is the finer, but I disagree.”
“What amazes me,” boomed Mrs. Tregader, “is that no sooner is the war over than the English flock over there and suddenly everything has got to be French.”
“We weren’t at war with their cooking or culture, Grandmama,” said Isabella.
“Hark at miss!” jeered the old woman. “Don’t you get saucy with me! I tell you, Fawley, a touch of the birch is what she needs to keep her in line.”
This remark had the effect of causing a heavy, gloomy silence—broken finally by Lord Werford, who announced, “Floating island pudding,” in the stentorian manner of an ostler outside a coaching inn announcing the destinations of the coaches.
Gerald felt a light sweat breaking out on his forehead. This was it. Now count. Plates passed down. First for Mr. Fawley, senior, next for his son, and now the next would be for the duke. It was a large h
elping.
“Oh, my stars and garters!” shouted Lord Werford suddenly, hopping up and down. While all stared at him, Gerald poured the arsenic powder into the duke’s plate of pudding.
“Sorry,” said Lord Werford. “Twinge of gout. Keep on passing the plates, Warby.”
Gerald smiled and gave the poison-loaded plate of pudding to the duke.
The serving continued, everyone politely waiting until everyone else had been served. The duke picked up his spoon.
“I’ve got only a little bit,” complained Mrs. Tregader. “You served the gentlemen first, Werford. I am very fond of floating island pudding.”
The duke signaled to a footman who was standing ready to take away empty plates to the kitchen. “Take my plate to Mrs. Tregader with my compliments.”
“No!” said Gerald. Alice looked at him. “I mean,” he said, forcing a smile, “I am not hungry. Have mine, Mrs. Tregader.”
“I’ll have Ferrant’s,” said the old woman, who had already noticed the duke had the largest portion.
The footman took the duke’s plate to Mrs. Tregader, lifted her plate, and brought it round to the duke.
“I say,” said Percy suddenly, “this pudding’s sour. Do not eat it.”
Mrs. Tregader shoveled the confection into her mouth. “Bit spicy,” she remarked between mouthfuls, “but tasty. Very tasty.”
“I hope it chokes her,” muttered Isabella.
Nobody else ate theirs. After the plates had been cleared away, the cover was removed and fruit and nuts and decanters placed on the polished surface of the table. Alice realized that as Lord Werford had no hostess and as she was the most senior in rank, it was her duty to rise and lead the ladies to the drawing room.
Mrs. Tregader had often complained of having a weak heart while being privately convinced she was as strong as an ox. But the weak heart was a reality, and the first convulsion that racked her body put an end to her and realized her granddaughter’s prayers. Mrs. Tregader rolled under the table and then lay there, as dead as a doornail.
They all gathered around while the duke knelt to feel the old lady’s pulse. “She’s not really dead,” said Isabella. “She’s just playing dead. We had a dog who could do that.” She looked wildly around and then collapsed into hysterics.
Lady Macdonald slapped her smartly on the face, and Isabella flung herself into Alice’s arms and sobbed.
Alice soothed her, but all the while her eyes ranged round the guests. Fawley senior and Fawley junior were white and shaken. Lady Macdonald looked bored. Mrs. Tumley was gazing avidly from face to face, but then she always looked like that, constantly seeking out scandal. Gerald was a muddy color but quite composed. Werford and Percy were slumped in their chairs, both of them staring straight ahead.
“We had best take Miss Tregader home with us,” said Alice when her husband rose to her feet. “She cannot be alone this night.”
“Take the carriage and take her home now,” said the duke. “I will stay here until the doctor arrives. And you stay as well, Warby,” he snapped as Gerald moved toward the door. For one awful moment, Gerald thought the duke knew he had been guilty of poisoning the pudding, but then he quickly realized that the jealous duke did not want him to leave at the same time as Alice, in case he accompanied her home.
The rest of that evening Alice had her hands full with the weeping Isabella, who was now thinking God would strike her dead for her evil thoughts about her grandmother. Alice soothed her, saying sensibly over and over again that no one could wish anyone else dead. Isabella could now go to Virginia as soon as the funeral was over. She must bear up and think of that. It was all very sad, but Mrs. Tregader had been so very old. It was not as if she had died young, and, furthermore, Isabella need not wed the horrible Mr. Fawley after all. She talked on and on until Isabella’s maid arrived with her luggage and Isabella finally went to bed, pale but composed; Alice sank down in a chair in her private sitting room, feeling wrung out and exhausted.
It was too much of a coincidence, she kept thinking. First the pâté, now the pudding. That pudding had been meant for the duke. Her scared thoughts ran round and round in her head.
The door opened and her husband stood on the threshold. Alice looked at him wide-eyed, as if seeing him for the first time. Fear for him made her rush across the room and throw her arms about him.
“Now this is what I call a welcome,” said the duke, holding her close.
Alice leaned back in his arms and looked up into his face. “John, that pudding was meant for you. Then there was the pâté…”
“I do seem to lead a charmed life, do I not?” he teased. “But how wonderful you should feel such concern for me.”
“I have been a bad wife, John….”
“Shhh.” He put a hand over her lips. “The dog was a poor sick thing anyway, and Werford’s doctor confirmed that Mrs. Tregader died of a heart attack. Furthermore, her own doctor was called by Fawley, who looked as if he had just lost the crown jewels, and he said that Mrs. Tregader had often complained of pains at her heart. He had suggested she try to eat less, but she would not heed his advice.”
“But the shooting in the Park,” said Alice when he took his hand away.
“Ah, that. Most odd. But I have no enemies. Hush, my dear, it has been a dreadful day. How is Miss Tregader?”
“Quieter now. She was consumed by guilt, but the realization that she does not need to marry Fawley after all has done wonders for her spirits.”
His eyes hardened. “Damn all conniving parents and relatives who would force daughters into unhappy marriages.”
“Ah, do not be so bitter,” cried Alice. “In truth, I am glad, yes, glad, I did not marry Gerald, for I fear I do not even like him at all.”
He crushed her to him and kissed her breathless.
She kissed him back with all her heart and soul, and he forgot she was a virgin, only knew that she was the most desirable woman he had ever held in his arms, and proceeded to make love to her with a mixture of expertise and blinding passion. He kissed her neck and the tops of her breasts until she moaned against him, so that with a triumphant laugh, he scooped her up in his arms and carried her through to her bedroom, falling onto the bed with her and removing her clothes as he kissed her and kissed her.
He left her for a moment to tear off his own clothes, before seizing her again and covering her nakedness with his own. Their bodies heaved and turned and clung until dawn came through the window and bleached the flames of the guttering candles. Alice eventually fell into an exhausted sleep wrapped closely in his arms.
He lay awake for a moment, looking up at the bed canopy. That she had been a virgin until this night was in no doubt. But her passion had matched his, at times had seemed to exceed his. He was grateful but puzzled. All gentlemen knew that ladies were incapable of passion. Only wantons and trollops were. He felt he had moved into strange territory, but he settled her head more comfortably on his chest before he, too, fell asleep.
During the next few days, the duke found himself wishing Isabella Tregader in hell. He had to admit to himself in his saner moments that his love for his wife had become an obsession. He wanted her every minute of the day, but every minute of the day appeared to be taken up with soothing Isabella, helping Isabella with the funeral arrangements, and driving Isabella to the lawyers, where that young lady was amazed to find out the extent of her fortune. He had not been able to share Alice’s bed since that first hectic time, for Isabella had nightmares and called for Alice to sit by her bed. At last the duke found out from Isabella the name of her old nurse, who was now resident in Bath, drove there, brought the old lady back, and, with great relief, installed both nurse and Isabella in the late Mrs. Tregader’s home.
Now he had his bride all to himself… and yet he found himself in the grip of the most burning jealousy. She had been in love with that cur, Warby, had she not? Had she given him such burning kisses? And so he finally made love to her in such a punishing way that she cried
out he was hurting her, and he opened his mouth and said sourly, “I am sorry I cannot compete with your first lover,” and Alice had become tearful and furious and the night had ended in disaster, with him stalking off to his own bedroom.
And he did not know it was this very insane jealousy of Gerald that kept Alice from confiding her fears in him. The more she thought about all those incidents, the more she became convinced that Gerald was trying to kill her husband. It was no use talking about it to John, she thought wearily, for he would only hear the very word, Gerald, and then begin to rant and rage and would not listen to anything else.
The day her husband went riding in the Row with Edward and he was thrown from his horse—and a jagged piece of metal was found by the groom wedged under the horse’s saddle—Alice made up her mind. She would meet Gerald and tell him that if other incidents occurred, she would go to the authorities with her suspicions.
She knew the duke was to make a speech at the House of Lords that afternoon on the Irish question. Where to meet Gerald? She finally decided that St. James’s Park was the best venue. The Park was no longer fashionable with the Quality. She wrote him a letter, sanded it, and sealed it.
“And let us hope that is the end of Gerald,” she said to Oracle as the bird hopped about the floor. “To think I once loved Gerald!” The bird put its head on one side and regarded her with bright eyes. Alice laughed and handed him a grape. “Oracle, I sometimes think you are the only one who loves me.”
Gerald read the letter with surprise and delight. Lord Werford’s spies had reported that the duke and duchess were very much reconciled, but surely this letter showed things were different.
He was early for his appointment with Alice at the south end of the Park. Through the lime trees, he could see the red brick front of Buckingham House.
She had arranged to meet him at two o’clock. The bells of London began to chime the two strokes. On Horseguards, a lazy group of soldiers strolled past, magnificent in red and gold.
He did not see Alice arrive, for he had been searching for one of the duke’s carriages. But she came on horseback, and he swung round in time to see her sliding deftly down from the saddle.
