Lord Clifford's Dilemma

by Oliver, Marina

  When they had drunk tea and eaten some of Cook's delicious small cakes they were shown to their rooms, and invited to explore the house when they had changed from their travelling clothes. Lord Clifford explained that his mother had extended the house to put a ballroom at the rear.

  'So when we are planning your own ball, Annamarie, we can have it here.'

  'When?' she demanded. 'In November?'

  'No, during the next Season. It will take longer than you think to organize.'

  She pouted.

  'I will be married to Henry by next year.'

  'Apart from lack of time, there are far fewer people in town now than there will be in the Season proper. You don't wish your ball to be stigmatised as a shabby affair, do you?' Lord Clifford asked. 'Now, show Miss Markby to her room. We will dine at seven.'

  Annamarie shrugged and did so. Elizabeth had been given a room on the second floor, looking out over the garden at the rear of the house. It was larger than she expected, even though the ballroom took up half of it, and she looked down in delight at the walled expanse, criss-crossed with walks bordered with shrubs. Not a great deal was in flower at this time of year, but she could imagine the whole would be a glorious mass of colour in spring and summer.

  Meg was waiting, and had unpacked a simple evening gown of primrose silk and the Norwich shawl Elizabeth had bought to take to Crossways. She washed and changed, Meg did her hair in a simple style, and she went downstairs, eager to do as his lordship had suggested, and explore the house.

  There was the same shabbiness as at Crossways, due to the long neglect of the late Lord Clifford, but it looked a homely place. She came first to the library and was soon absorbed in searching for her favourites. Lord Clifford found her there.

  'I don't subscribe to the Minerva Press, I'm afraid,' he said, laughing at her.

  'How remiss of you, my lord! But I do read other novels, poetry too, and though you may not believe me, I can also manage to read more serious books. You have plenty here to amuse me for a few weeks.'

  'Good. Tomorrow, I will show you round the house and garden so that you can be reassured Annamarie cannot escape unseen,' he promised.

  She laughed.

  'I cannot imaging her climbing over the wall of the garden. She appears happy to be here.'

  'Yes, she can be a delightful child when she gets her own way. I trust her satisfaction in being in London will cause her to restrain the wilder tendencies. Thank you for coming. Was it very difficult getting your mother here?'

  'I did at one time fear she would abandon the scheme and instruct the coachman to drive straight to Kent, but all went well. She read about some new fashion in hats, and decided she needs to purchase some.'

  'Lady Palgrave will know the best milliners, if your mother does not already have her own favourites. But come, we should be in the drawing room. It is almost time for dinner.'

  *

  The first few days passed peacefully, with shopping, a visit to the theatre, and when the weather permitted, riding or driving in the Park. In her first Season, Elizabeth had rarely been driven there except for a few times by Sir Percy, and she recalled how, even when she had thought she was in love with him, she had been critical of the manner in which he drove, which she had considered reckless and showy rather than competent. She had admitted to being frightened he would overturn them, and consequently made excuses not to go out with him. When she had ridden in his company she had occasionally flinched at the rough treatment he had given his horses, using the whip far more than she had thought necessary.

  Her only experience of Lord Clifford's driving had been the curricles in the country and Brighton, and when he suggested he drove her in a high perch phaeton she had been tempted to refuse. His raised eyebrows when she began to shake her head had made her suddenly change her mind and accept. It had been a revelation, the manner in which he controlled his lively pair, steering them through the traffic with ease, and steadying them when they took exception to a lumbering coach.

  Lady Markby, having discovered which of her acquaintances were in London, left cards, and began to receive morning callers and invitations. One of the first was to a small ball, and it was decided the whole party should go.

  'It will be the best way of announcing our presence here,' Lady Palgrave said. 'It will be a very select gathering.'

  Annamarie was in a ferment of excitement. She declared that the ball gowns she had worn at the Brighton Assemblies simply would not do for a London ball.

  'There is no time to have another made,' Lady Palgrave said, provoking a storm of tears and then, when they achieved nothing, sulks.

  'Let me come and see your gowns,' Elizabeth said. 'Mayhap we can contrive some simple alterations which will make one of them more fashionable.'

  She managed, with the addition of some flounces and ribbons, to satisfy Annamarie that her gown would be admired, so when they set off for the ball the girl was in a pleasant mood.

  That mood survived the first hour, until a waltz was played. She was sitting at one end of the room with the other ladies of the party, and when Henry appeared to solicit her hand stood up immediately.

  'No, child, you may not,' Lady Palgrave said.

  Annamarie swung round on her.

  'May not? But why may I not dance? I did at the Snaiths' ball.'

  'It's a waltz,' Lady Palgrave said.

  'I do know that! What difference does it make?'

  Elizabeth decided she needed to intervene.

  'Debutantes are considered fast if they dance a waltz before the Almack Patronesses have signified their approval,' she told her. 'It was different in Hampshire, at a small private party.'

  'But the Patronesses are not here, are they? They won't know.'

  'One of them may be. I do not know them all. However, their presence or not is nought to the point. If they hear of this, and they will, make no mistake, you will not be given vouchers next Season. To be denied such will mean you do not mix with the people who matter. You will have forfeited the chance of making a success of your debut.'

  Annamarie glared at Elizabeth, then threw herself back into the chair and heaved a great sigh.

  'I think it's all ridiculous,' she said, loudly enough for some of the older ladies sitting nearby to look at her disapprovingly.

  Lord Clifford appeared at that moment, and she immediately appealed to him. When she received the same explanation as given by Elizabeth she glowered, and her glower became even more pronounced when he asked Elizabeth to dance.

  'I thought the good behaviour would not last for long,' he said as they moved away.

  'Then we must think of something to distract her. So far the only enthusiasm she has shown has been for shopping.'

  'Have you any suggestions? I fear my imagination does not extend to ways of entertaining petulant wards.'

  'There is Bullock's Museum. I believe there are many stuffed, exotic animals. I think that would appeal to her.'

  'Or the live ones at the Tower menagerie. Though I might be tempted to throw her to the lions there! Enough of the little wretch. Let us just enjoy this music and being able to dance together.'

  *

  By the following morning Lord Clifford had devised a different strategy. If threats did not work, he would see what bribery did. He sent for Annamarie, and when she came into his library, where he was reading some Government papers he had not had time to read during the last session of Parliament, waved her to a chair.

  'Are you going to berate me about last night?' she asked.

  'No. I am prepared to accept that you did not know what was expected, though I felt you might have been a little more gracious about it when informed. People notice such behaviour, and if you gain a reputation as a girl who sulks you will find there are fewer invitations come your way.'

  She looked mutinous, then, with a tremendous struggle, smiled.

  'Then what did you wish to say to me?'

  'I am prepared to sanction a betrothal to Sir Henry
, after you have had a full Season, and when he has come of age next June, and if you both still wish it, provided in the meantime you demonstrate a greater maturity in your behaviour.'

  She was silent for so long, staring down at the carpet, he wondered if she had heard. Then she looked up at him, and the familiar tears appeared in her eyes.

  'It is so long to wait,' she complained.

  'It is less than a year, and you have known one another for a very short time.'

  'And then you will say we cannot be wed for another year.'

  'That will depend on how you behave now, whether you can prove you have grown up, become more responsible, able to manage a household. That is something you will have to learn, and you could spend your time preparing for such responsibilities.'

  'Oh, that's so boring! We will have servants, a housekeeper, to do all that. We will want to be enjoying ourselves.'

  'Sir Henry will have an estate to manage.'

  'He'll have a steward, like he does now.'

  Lord Clifford sighed.

  'I can only hope that before you are wed you will change your attitude,' he said. 'Go along now.'

  He found it impossible to concentrate on dry Government papers, and left the house to go to White's, in the hope of meeting some of his friends and distracting himself from his problems. He found several men he knew, mostly bachelors like himself, and he was persuaded to join a card table, and eventually to dine at the club. He sent a message to Clifford House, and excused himself from escorting the ladies to a soirée that evening, feeling quite unable to face a programme of harpists and sopranos in his present depressed mood. Would the chit behave, after what he had promised her? Perhaps she would, for a week.

  As he walked back to Berkeley Square, well after midnight, he pondered on the next five years, before his impossible ward became of age. It was not an encouraging prospect. He felt tempted to marry her off at once to Henry Markby, but knew that would be a cowardly act, and he could not serve the boy such a turn. Besides, he suspected Elizabeth would never forgive him. And her good opinion was beginning to matter to him. If he could not control the girl, what chance would a youth like Henry have? He had no delusions that love would change Annamarie, make her more amenable or conformable. Well, he would see what the next few weeks brought, whether being in town would satisfy the child, and face his problems later, when it was time to return to Crossways.

  *

  Elizabeth was reading in the library on the following morning when Henry came storming into the room. She looked up in some alarm. He was still wearing riding clothes, had not bothered to change.

  'Henry, what in the world is the matter?'

  'I saw him! In the Park. This morning.'

  'Who? Henry, calm down and explain.'

  'You remember when I was riding to Crossways, some buffoons came out of a path and caused my horse to throw me?'

  'Oh, that. I thought you had forgot all about it.'

  He was striding jerkily about the room, striking his boots with his riding crop.

  'How the devil could I forget such an insult? They didn't help, they laughed at me. Well, you remember I said I recognized one of them, and his horse? The one with white socks? He was in the Park, riding the same horse, this morning, and I found out who he is. He's Jeremy Thoroughgood, and he has lodgings in Half Moon Street. I mean to call him out! He won't treat me in such a fashion and get away with it!'

  Elizabeth cast her eyes up to heaven. She did not take Henry's threat seriously, but it was one more problem for her to deal with. She knew little about duelling, apart from what she had read in her Minerva Press novels, but she had heard about actual ones.

  'Henry, don't be so ridiculous! Either he kills you, or if you killed him you'd have to flee the country. How could you marry Annamarie then, if you had to skulk in Calais or Italy? And what would you live on?'

  He looked frustrated, and picked on the least important aspect of the matter.

  'So you'd deny me my own money?'

  'If the man knows you are under age, he would most probably refuse to meet you.'

  He ignored that.

  'I need some duelling pistols. Didn't Pa have some?'

  'If he did they are at Markby Court. Henry, show some sense! Why, when you go out shooting rabbits or rooks you only hit one in a hundred. How can you possibly imagine you might score a hit in a duel?'

  He frowned and threw himself down into a chair, and raked his hand through his hair.

  'Then what can I do, Lizzie? He insulted me, and I want to make him pay!'

  She breathed a sigh of relief. He was not so stupid as to ignore her advice. When he used the name Lizzie, he was reverting to his childhood habit, appealing to his big sister to rescue him from some scrape.

  She thought quickly.

  'Henry, you are a good rider, even though you were thrown that time. Why not tell him what happened, and challenge him to a race? It would be more appropriate than fighting with pistols!'

  He smiled.

  'Clever Lizzie! Yes, I'll do that, and you can all come to watch. I've heard of such races being held at Epsom. It would be good sport. We can have a serious bet on the result. I'll go and compose a letter to him. And think who I can ask to help, be a judge and all that, you know.'

  *

  'Crispin, are you busy?'

  Lord Clifford glanced up from the newspaper he was reading.

  'Annamarie? No, come in. Did you wish to speak with me? I thought you had gone shopping.'

  'I didn't feel like it.'

  She sat down in a chair facing him, and her shoulders drooping, and put a hand up to shield her eyes.

  He frowned and regarded her closely. Was she ill? It was unheard of for her to reject a shopping trip, and as he found more and more bills coming in he was already beginning to wonder how much she would have spent by the time they went home. It was not that he grudged it her, or could not afford it, but he simply did not understand how one girl could possibly wear all these clothes. Maybe she was thinking they would do for the following Season, or her trousseau, but his knowledge of females made him dismiss the notion. There would be new fashions, and new clothes would be required.

  'So what did you wish to say?'

  She bit her lip.

  'Crispin, the other night, when you said I could not waltz, I was angry. I am truly sorry I was so horrid about it. But I have been thinking.'

  He raised his eyebrows. This was something new.

  'About what?'

  'Well, in the end I was relieved. For you see, I do not know the steps, not properly, that is, and I don't believe Henry does, either. Felix and I were not very good at it, in Hampshire. If we had danced the other night I would probably have looked silly.'

  He suppressed a smile. She was far more worried about making a mull of it than the impropriety.

  'You have time to learn,' he tried to reassure her. 'I could hire a dancing master for you.'

  'Oh, no, I'd hate that!'

  'But why?'

  'I'd detest having to dance with some old man I didn't know. It was all right when I was learning the cotillion, or the quadrille, or country dances, but the waltz is different.'

  Which is why young girls are discouraged from performing it, he thought.

  'Then how do you propose to learn?'

  'I want you to teach me.'

  He stared at her in astonishment.

  'Elizabeth could play the piano for us,' she said eagerly. 'She plays excellently. And we could try in the ballroom here. Crispin, do say you will teach me. Please!'

  He shook his head.

  'No, Annamarie. I have no intention of turning myself into a dancing master. Not all dancing masters are old and ugly. How do you imagine most young ladies learn?'

  'I don't know, and I don't care!' she said, getting hastily to her feet and going to lean against the mantlepiece. She looked at him, blinking hard. 'I'm not most young ladies!'

  'Can Henry waltz? Does he know the steps? A dancin
g master could teach the two of you, so you could dance with him.'

  'I don't care what Henry knows. I don't love him, I never have done. Crispin,' she said, and now she allowed the tears to fall, and ran across the room towards him, 'Crispin, darling, can't you see, it's you I love, you I want to marry, not Henry!'

  Appalled, he was unprepared for her throwing herself on to his knees and clinging to him, kissing his face with feverish eagerness. Elizabeth had been right, he thought as he struggled to his feet and freed himself from her embrace.

  *

  Chapter 13

  To Lord Clifford's relief, before he found the words to repulse her, Annamarie burst into a storm of tears and fled from the room. He poured himself a hefty measure of brandy and tossed it off in one swallow. He refilled the glass, and then, telling himself that getting drunk would solve nothing, flung himself into a chair to try and work through this logically. He was astonished a young girl could be so forward, appalled by her action, furious with her, and angry with himself for neither having seen the danger, despite Elizabeth's warning, nor being able to respond suitably.

  What was a suitable response? How was he to deal with this development? Of course, he could simply tell Annamarie that he would never marry her, did not, and never would love her, but he suspected she would react to that by becoming even more wild and uncontrollable. She would not accept an explanation that as her guardian, he would be stigmatized for such a marriage, for, as people would think, having taken advantage of her youth and dependence on him. Or, because he knew from previous experience that she simply did not believe what was unacceptable to her, she might become even more annoying, possibly in public. He was by no means a craven man, but he cringed from the thought of such social embarrassment.

  He could, by marrying Elizabeth, show her he was not free to marry her, but that would be a coward's way out. And how, in that event, would she treat Elizabeth? Certainly she would contrive to make her life uncomfortable. Would she, even, try to harm Elizabeth? He was well aware she was quite capable of physical violence when thwarted, though in the past year or so she had usually controlled this tendency, had become more devious, obtaining revenge indirectly. If she really believed she loved him, and Elizabeth was the reason he did not return her love, she would be liable to give way to unbridled rage against Elizabeth. The very notion made his blood run cold. No, he could not possibly put Elizabeth in danger. So he had to discover a way, and speedily, of deflecting Annamarie's supposed affections from himself.