by M C Beaton
“Quite.”
“You must make sure he does not form a tendre for me. I should shake like a jelly with fear. We dine early. I suppose it is comme il faut for you to sit with us. It is not as if you are precisely a servant. Come along.”
“I would appreciate an opportunity of trying this dress on Miss Westerville first, my lady,” said Kennedy, shaking out the folds of a yellow ball gown.
“We haven’t got the time, so you must guess your best,” said Ismene airily. “Come, Lucinda.”
Lucinda had never before hated anyone. She disliked Mrs. Glossop and her daughters, but tolerated them. One could not expect to like everyone. So Lucinda was quite surprised at the strength of her sudden savage dislike for her young employer. She thought Lady Ismene detestable: vain, silly, empty-headed, selfish, and cruel. She knew instinctively that Ismene would soon turn against her, the way a spoilt child will smash a doll. But somehow, she must try to last in her post as companion for as long as possible. Only when her father wrote to say he was returned to full health could she begin to relax.
The Countess of Clifton was much as Lucinda expected Ismene’s mother to be—every bit as chattering and empty-headed as her daughter. The earl was silent and taciturn, but Lucinda sensed in him some strength of character.
“And you should see poor Lucinda’s gowns!” cried Ismene as the dessert was brought in. “So countrified. Why, Mama, only see the texture of the cotton in that gown she has on. Quite peasant.”
“Kennedy will no doubt run her up something for Almack’s,” said the countess, raising a quizzing glass and surveying Lucinda with a cold eye.
“Yes, that old yellow thing,” said Ismene. She stared at the dessert, which was a miracle of the confectioner’s art, a sugar lion crouched in a bed of sugarplums. She raised a silver knife and decapitated the lion with one quick stroke. Little puffs of sugar dust floated up into the sunbeams in the dining room.
“Now that you have ruined it, Ismene,” said her father, speaking for the first time, “you may as well eat some of it.”
“No,” said Ismene with a shrug. “I don’t want any.” The earl’s lips tightened but he said nothing. “So,” went on Ismene, “it will not matter much what Lucinda looks like, for she will not be dancing.”
“Why?” demanded the earl suddenly.
“Stupid. Companions don’t dance.”
“Yes, they do,” said the earl firmly. “It will look most odd in you, Ismene, if you have a young companion who is not allowed to dance. In fact, it would be better to introduce Lucinda as your friend.”
“Why, pray?”
“So that you do not continue to be the only young lady in London who appears to be incapable of making friends.”
“Ismene would have scores of friends,” said her mother loyally, “were she not so very pretty. They are all jealous.”
“As you will,” said the earl, appearing to lose interest.
“Of course,” said Ismene slowly, “there may be something in what you say. But don’t go giving yourself airs, Lucinda, or I shall be obliged to send you packing.”
“You will send Lucinda packing when I say so and not before,” said the earl.
“Pooh,” retorted his wife. “If you are going to be unpleasant, Clifton, we may as well leave you to your port.”
She picked up a little water bowl, filled her mouth with some of the liquid, gargled noisily, and spat the water back into the bowl. “Come, Lucinda,” said the countess, dabbing her mouth with her napkin. “You will play for us before we retire to dress.”
* * *
Ismene ordered Kennedy to see to the cutting of Lucinda’s hair, and then became absorbed in her own preparations for the ball. Monsieur Roux himself, that famous hairdresser, was to arrange her own hair in one of the new fashionable styles. Kennedy was unimpressed by Monsieur Roux’s reputation. He was a foreigner, a servant like herself. She met him in the corridor as he was leaving Ismene’s bedroom after having done her hair. “Off so soon!” exclaimed Kennedy, seeing the hairdresser making for the stairs. “There is another lady to attend to. A Miss Westerville. You’re to cut her hair.” She held open the door of Lucinda’s room. “In here,” she said with an ungracious jerk of her head.
Monsieur Roux opened his mouth to say he would not do any more that evening, but then gave a resigned Gallic shrug. He was shrewd and clever and knew that the aristocracy might favor high-handed hairdressers for a short time, but that a man who was discreet, civil, and obliging would remain at the top of his profession for a long time.
Lucinda blushed as he came in, followed by Kennedy. She was attired only in her shift. But Kennedy seemed to find nothing amiss. “This is Monsoor Rooks,” said Kennedy, “come to cut off your hair,” and, with that, she exited with a loud slamming of the door to show both parties how low they ranked in her idea of precedence.
Monsieur Roux looked at the wealth of Lucinda’s chestnut hair. “Short crops are highly fashionable,” he said, “but with hair such as yours, Miss Westerville, surely it would be a crime to spoil such beauty.”
“I am Lady Ismene’s companion,” said Lucinda in a colorless voice, “and her instructions are that my hair must be cut.”
Monsieur Roux glanced quickly at her reflection in the mirror, his sharp black eyes noticing the compression of the soft mouth and the glitter of unshed tears in the large eyes.
“Very well,” he said. He picked up his long, sharp scissors. Lucinda closed her eyes.
All at once she remembered her mother, dead these past six years, with ache and longing; her pretty, vivacious mother who made light of their poverty. Lucinda felt lost and alone in an alien world. Her throat ached with the effort of holding back her tears.
Monsieur Roux muttered something and then rang the bell. When a chambermaid answered it, he said, “Fetch my boy. You will find him waiting for me belowstairs. And tell him to bring my cases.” Thinking his work completed for the evening, Monsieur Roux had sent his boy downstairs to wait for him.
He was all at once determined to create the most fashionable crop in London.
When the boy arrived, Monsieur Roux rapped out orders for pomades and lotions.
After some time, Kennedy came in with the yellow gown over her arm and stood waiting impatiently. “Are you going to take all night?” she demanded. “Lady Ismene does not like to be kept waiting.”
“No,” murmured the hairdresser, “I am just finished.”
He stood back and admired his handiwork. “You may open your eyes now, Miss Westerville,” he said.
But Lucinda did not look in the mirror. She got to her feet and turned to face Kennedy.
“You foreign rogue!” said Kennedy, her normally bad-tempered face cracking in a grin. “Off with you.”
Kennedy deftly helped Lucinda into the gown, draped a shawl around her shoulders, handed her gloves and a fan, and told her to make haste. “But don’t you want to see yourself?” said the lady’s maid.
She pushed Lucinda toward the wardrobe and swung open one of the doors, which had a long mirror on the inside.
Lucinda looked amazed at the modish stranger facing her. The primrose-yellow gown was cleverly tucked to flatter her thin figure. Her head was a riot of curls, brushed and pomaded so that the gold threads in them shone in the candlelight.
“Make the most of it,” said Kennedy sourly, “for the sight of you is going to put her ladyship in a passion. Here, give me that shawl. The night is sharp. Put on this cloak, see”—lifting a cloak of Lucinda’s from the wardrobe—“and put the hood over your head, so she don’t see what you look like or you’ll never be allowed out of the house.”
Too bewildered to protest, Lucinda did as she was bid.
Downstairs, Ismene berated her for taking so much time, but made no remark on Lucinda’s cloaked and hooded appearance.
Ismene herself looked ravishing in a gown of gold net with gold and silver embroidery. Mindful of her duties, Lucinda told her so, and was rewarded with
a complacent smile. “I feel we shall deal together tolerably well,” said Ismene.
At Almack’s, Kennedy deliberately saw to her mistress first so that Ismene and her mother had left the anteroom before Kennedy removed Lucinda’s cloak.
Lucinda went shyly into the entrance hall and joined the Earl and Countess of Clifton and Ismene.
Ismene’s eyes bulged. “You look a fright,” she said crossly.
The earl put up his quizzing glass. “My dear Miss Westerville,” he said, “you are so modish, so beautiful, that I could only wish your father were here to see you.”
He walked ahead, and the countess and Ismene, darting furious glances at Lucinda, followed.
“What on earth was Roux about, to turn the companion into a fashion plate?” hissed the countess. “Kennedy was told to cut off Lucinda’s hair.”
“When malice is confounded, it is always upsetting,” said the earl equably.
As they entered the ballroom, a roped-off square of floor rather like a ring at a cattle auction, Lucinda thought nervously it was as well she was only a companion with no expectations of social success. To arrive at Almack’s as a Miss making her come-out must be even more terrifying. How hard everyone’s eyes were! How assessing. How they did stare so!
Heads bent and voices whispered. Lucinda did not know the stares and urgent whispers were from one lady to another as they planned to find out the name of Lucinda’s hairdresser at the earliest opportunity.
“Lucinda is not to be introduced as my friend,” muttered Ismene to her mother. “Society will think we are making fools of them when it comes out she is only the daughter of a curate. Put it about, Mama, in case the gentlemen ask her to dance and not me.”
The countess pressed her daughter’s hand reassuringly and moved with determined steps to the row of chaperones to start to inform society about the lowly state of the new beauty. But she had quite forgotten that she had persuaded the patronesses to issue vouchers to the unknown Miss Westerville by creating a false background for Lucinda. As the gossip went about the ballroom, the countess soon found herself faced by one of the angry patronesses, demanding to know why such a cuckoo had been allowed to flutter its feathers in this exclusive nest of the aristocracy. Seeing that her daughter’s own vouchers might be at risk, the countess exclaimed that the gossip must have come from some jealous and malicious source. Lucinda was a companion to Ismene, it was true, but of good ton and one of the Somerset Westervilles.
She then hurried back to Ismene to warn her that ruining Lucinda socially would mean a termination of Ismene’s vouchers. So Ismene was forced to see Lucinda treated as a member of society.
But Lucinda diplomatically turned down many invitations to dance, accepting only when she was sure Ismene had a partner. She was puzzled by Ismene’s lack of popularity with the gentlemen. Ismene was beautiful and rich. It was most odd. But Lucinda still considered her own extreme dislike of Ismene as unnatural. The girl was badly spoilt, not a monster. The fact was that Ismene longed for power. She felt secure in her own wealth and attractions and was sure that by saying a great deal of wounding and cutting things to the gentlemen that she was enslaving them the more. So the only partners she had were among the few adventurers and impoverished Irish peers who had slipped in through the iron net of the patronesses’ social control.
It was when Ismene, who was dancing with Sir Brian Callaghan, a rakish and penniless Irishman, noticed that Lucinda was being partnered by Lord Peter Trevize, a rich and handsome nobleman, that she felt that matters had gone far enough. So when Lucinda was promenading with Lord Peter at the end of the dance, Ismene walked up to them and said sharply, “Come, companion, you are neglecting your duties.”
Lord Peter looked angry and surprised, but Lucinda meekly curtsied and followed Ismene to a line of chairs against the wall. “Now, sit down and stop making a cake of yourself,” snapped Ismene. She then sat down angrily next to Lucinda and opened her mouth to give that young lady a severe dressing-down when, fortunately for Lucinda, a diversion happened in the form of a new arrival.
“Here is Rockingham!” cried someone.
The Savage Marquess had just entered the ballroom. Lucinda looked at him curiously. He was handsome in a hard-bitten way, a strong chin and jutting nose, thick black hair, and those odd green eyes under heavy lids. Despite his impeccable English tailoring and the large diamond which blazed from among the snowy folds of his cravat, he looked foreign and out of place among the well-bred English faces. A predator, thought Lucinda, amused despite her distress at Ismene’s temper.
He looked haughtily around the ballroom and then stopped to talk to Lady Sally Jersey, one of the patronesses. She said something which made him laugh, and that laugh transformed his whole face. Not so savage after all, thought Lucinda, feeling breathless. Then the marquess went off in the direction of the card room. Ismene pouted. “He is not going to dance,” she said. “Now, Lucinda, here comes that tiresome Mr. Baxter to ask me to dance. You are to stay here and not move!”
Lucinda obediently sat where she was until the fifth gentleman asked her to dance. She sadly shook her head and then moved to a chair in a far corner behind a group of standing people so that she could hide away in comfort. Shielded at last from the dancers on the floor and from Ismene’s accusing stare, Lucinda allowed herself to relax.
She must stop worrying about Ismene. Fear of dismissal was making her timid. Ismene, Lucinda was sure, sensed that timidity and it made her worse. People, mused Lucinda, were sometimes very like wild dogs. If you were afraid of them, they sensed it and moved in for the kill. So she would count her blessings. Papa was being cared for. She herself was in good health and here in that holy of holys, Almack’s Assembly Rooms. How furiously jealous the Misses Glossop would be if they could see her now!
A smile crossed Lucinda’s face.
The Marquess of Rockingham had quit the card room. He had been about to settle down for a game when he had sternly reminded himself he was on the lookout for a wife. So he had returned to the ballroom to find a country dance in progress. He saw, among the group in front of Lucinda, an acquaintance, Lord Freddy Pomfret, and made his way in that direction.
Lord Freddy’s sister, Lady Agatha, looked at the marquess nervously, as if waiting for him to bite. “Back from your travels,” said Lord Freddy cheerfully. “London has not seen you this age, but all anyone talks about is that you’re on the hunt for a wife. What about Aggie here?”
Lady Agatha, a timid girl with a long nose, murmured, “Oh, Freddy,” and looked desperately around the ballroom for escape.
“Everyone’s on the hunt here,” said the marquess. “I confess I am bored already. I don’t like dancing. Why can’t I just go up to one of those creatures and say, ‘When will we be married?’ and cut out all this charade?”
“Got to pretend to be in love,” said Lord Freddy easily. He was not in the least afraid of the marquess, being one of the few members of London society who had never been at the receiving end of the marquess’s bad temper. He was a tubby, cheerful young man who never strained his brain much with worry or uncertainty. “Only takes a few sighs and letters and then you can call in your lawyers to handle the rest,” he pointed out.
“But everyone looks so damned stupid,” said the marquess, staring about him with a jaundiced air. The dance ended. To Lady Agatha’s relief, a young man asked her to dance. The group about Lord Freddy began to melt away.
And that is when the Marquess of Rockingham first saw Lucinda, sitting against the wall, apparently lost in dreams, a smile on her face. A branch of candles on a shelf above her cast a soft radiance over her burnished hair. Her eyes were wide and dreamy.
“Introduce me,” said the marquess, staring at Lucinda.
Lord Freddy turned about. “Can’t,” he said. “Don’t know her. Came in with the Clifton party. Better ask the Countess of Clifton.”
“That vain, chattering woman? No.” The marquess moved toward Lucinda and stood looking down
at her. “Will you dance with me?” he asked.
The dreams left Lucinda’s eyes and she looked up at him.
“I am afraid I do not dance,” she said.
“Why?”
Ismene’s voice came from behind him. “Where is my wretched companion? Ah, Lucinda. There you are. Good evening, Lord Rockingham.”
“Who are you?” demanded the marquess.
Ismene blushed and giggled and then said, “I am Ismene, the Earl of Clifton’s daughter.”
The marquess bowed. “And I am Rockingham. So now we know each other, you may introduce me to this lady.”
“Lucinda. My companion.”
“Have you no manners, girl?” demanded the marquess. “Introduce me properly.”
“Lucinda, may I present the Marquess of Rockingham. Lord Rockingham, Miss Lucinda Westerville,” said Ismene in a thin voice.
Lucinda rose and curtsied.
“Good,” said the marquess. “Now leave us alone.”
“Yes, run along, Lucinda,” said Ismene.
“You. Not her,” said the marquess.
Ismene’s cheeks flamed. She threw a vicious look at Lucinda and hurried off.
Lucinda glared at the marquess. “My lord, I am a paid companion. Your behavior may have cost me my job.”
He looked at her thoughtfully. “I’ll give you another job. You may marry me if you like.”
Despite her distress, there was something about this abrupt proposal which struck Lucinda as exquisitely ridiculous. She laughed and laughed and finally said in a shaky voice, “No, I thank you, my lord.”
“Why not? I am not maimed or crippled. I am titled and rich.”
“I do not know you!”
“Do you need to? Oh, let us dance anyway. That’s what you ladies expect, is it not?”
“My lord, I have been given instructions not to dance.”
“I shall go and tell Clifton to have a word with that daughter of his. Hey, Clifton!” roared the marquess.
“No, no,” said Lucinda, appalled. “I will dance with you.”
