by M C Beaton
“Yes,” agreed Amaryllis. “But sometimes I cannot help but be sorry for them. They are very rarely happy.”
“Indeed? It strikes me they often have quite a deal of fun at someone else’s expense,” said Lady Evans dryly. “Only look at them now. I cannot hear what they are saying, but I am sure they are telling Mr. Chalmers many malicious stories about plain Miss Gaskell.”
“Perhaps she is not plain anymore,” said Amaryllis.
“In any case,” said Lady Evans, “it will give them someone else to bully.”
“Miss Gaskell,” announced the butler. The men got to their feet.
Everyone stared.
“Oh, I say,” muttered Lady Evans, the first to recover. “This is setting the cat among the pigeons.”
It was hard to recognize the little plain schoolgirl that had been Miss Gaskell in the raving beauty now facing them.
Her lank brown hair had become glossy chestnut, and it rioted about her rosy heart-shaped face. She was wearing a blue velvet Witzchoura mantle trimmed with fur. On her glossy curls was a capote, that smart bonnet with the soft crown and stiff brim which so prettily framed the face. The butler helped her out of her mantle, revealing to the company a deep-bosomed figure in an India muslin gown of palest pink.
Lady Warburton performed the introductions in a sort of dazed way.
“I am tewwibly hungwy,” said Miss Gaskell in a soft voice. “Now where shall I sit?”
Her large pansy eyes fastened on the Marquess. That fool of a butler, noticed Lady Warburton, grinding her teeth, was putting the minx next to Merechester. And how had Felicia Gaskell come by that babyish lisp?
Lady Warburton sat down again and glared balefully at Felicia, who was fluttering her eyelashes, first at the Marquess and then at Mr. Chalmers. Lady Warburton noticed with added rage that both gentlemen looked bewitched.
“Did you travel alone, Miss Gaskell?” the Marquess was asking.
“Oh, yeth,” lisped that lady. “Except for my dragon, and she don’t count.” She waved a dimpled little hand in the direction of an elderly companion who sat grimly by the window.
The Marquess rose and made a bow in the direction of the companion. “Won’t you introduce me?” he asked.
“Oh, yeth, sowwy,” grinned Miss Gaskell. “That’s Miss Jawwett.”
Miss Jarret dropped a curtsy and sat down again, her back as stiff as a ramrod.
The Marquess suddenly wondered whether the Warburton girls had a lady’s maid or whether Amaryllis was expected to fill that post as well as the one of seamstress.
“You will not have much of the gentlemen’s company after breakfast,” said Lady Warburton. “They are going hunting, and Lord Merechester is leaving us.”
“I could not possibly travel in this weather, ma’am,” said the Marquess smoothly. “It has started to snow quite heavily. I am afraid you must endure my company a little longer.”
Mr. Giles-Denton cleared his throat. “As M.F.H., I feel that the weather is too inclement to take hounds out today. Harrumph!” He beamed on Felicia’s pretty face, and his wife looked daggers at him.
“Spwendid!” cried Felicia, clapping her hands. “I must see Amaryllis. I have so much to tell her. Where is she?”
“I am here, Felicia,” said Amaryllis.
Felicia leaned forward and looked down the table, her eyes growing larger and larger.
“I would never have recognized you,” she said, forgetting to lisp. “What happened, dear Amaryllis? Have you been ill?”
“No, Felicia,” said Amaryllis. “I am become old.”
Felicia leaned back in her chair. “Poor Amaryllis,” she sighed to the Marquess. “And not mawwied. Oh!” she blushed in pretty confusion. “I had forgot. You were . . .”
“Quite,” said the Marquess. “More coffee, Miss Felicia?”
“Yes, pwease. I need some after that shock.”
Amaryllis tried to concentrate on her breakfast and switch her mind away from Felicia’s prattle. What a change in the girl. Before, she had hardly had a word to say.
But try as she would, Amaryllis could not help watching the Marquess out of the corner of her eye. From looking indulgent and amused, his look changed to that age-old, predatory, sensual expression that the male adopts when he is beginning to become strongly attracted to some female.
Amaryllis stood up and went to the urn on the sideboard to get another cup of coffee. She had never noticed before how many looking glasses there were at Patterns. There was one behind the sideboard, mirroring her white, pinched face. Behind her in the old greenish glass swam the radiant face of Felicia. She was leaning on one elbow and looking up at the Marquess in a flirtatious way from under her eyelashes.
Amaryllis decided against having more coffee. She had a sudden urge to escape.
She went up to her room and looked out at the park with sad eyes.
The snow was falling thickly. Her window overlooked the gardens at the east side, which were gently sloping, terraced and parterred, and laid out in symmetrical geometric shapes, the whole being planted with evergreens and hedged in clipped yew.
Statues by Jan Van Nost held up their stone arms to the falling snow.
Amaryllis felt immeasurably weary. At least she could not be expected to go driving with Lord Donnelly. At last she rose and went to a small writing desk and began to work on the draft of an advertisement. After staring at the blank sheet of parchment for a long time, she began to write, “Plain, uninteresting spinster with broken heart desires post as governess to one small sickly child. Willing to go anywhere at short notice. Any wages, however small, will be gratefully accepted.”
She sighed and tore it up and began to work on the proper draft. There came a scratching at the door.
“Come in,” called Amaryllis, sliding the paper under the blotter.
Lord Donnelly strolled into the room, leaving the door punctiliously open.
“What’s this I hear about the fair charmer belowstairs?” he said.
“Miss Felicia Gaskell,” said Amaryllis repressively, “has turned into a diamond of the first water. Pray go and see for yourself. If you are come to tell me we shall not be driving today, I quite understand. It would be madness to go out in this weather.”
“Then let’s be mad,” said Lord Donnelly. His eyes were very Irish, thought Amaryllis. Blue with a black iris and thick curling black lashes; mischievous and alert.
“I don’t feel like being mad,” sighed Amaryllis, walking to the window and standing with her back to him.
“No? Well, I do. Think of it, Miss Duvane. The snow is not very heavy, and we can trot on down to the town and have some refreshment and talk nonsense and you can forget all about the Warburtons for a couple of hours.”
Amaryllis stood very still. “Lady Warburton would object,” said Amaryllis over her shoulder at last. “If I do not work harder, then Cissie’s ballgown will not be ready.”
“You weren’t working on it now, were you? What’s a couple of hours? Come along, Miss Duvane, let’s throw open the gates of your genteel prison.”
“I would need a chaperon. We would need to travel in a closed carriage.”
“Ah, there now, you’re beginning to see sense. But we can dispense with the conventions for once. Am I the sort of gentleman, think you, to take advantage of the situation? It’s only a bit of company I’m wanting.”
Amaryllis bit her lip. She did not find Lord Donnelly attractive, and she was sure Lady Warburton was paying him for his courtship, but, on the other hand, if she stayed, she would shortly be summoned to the drawing room to show Lady Warburton her work in front of the curious eyes of Felicia Gaskell, those wide, beautiful eyes that had so quickly found a way to the Marquess of Merechester’s flinty heart.
She remembered his asking, “Do you have any feeling for me at all?” and her heart gave a lurch. He would not have asked that, surely, had he not retained some affection for her. But he had accused her of uglifying herself. He had said all those
cruel things.
“Come now,” said Lord Donnelly, coming to stand behind her. “What about a little drive, just to Caddam and back?”
“Amaryllis!” Lady Warburton’s voice sounded from the door. She pinned a wintry smile on her face at the sight of Lord Donnelly.
“The very person I was hoping to see,” said Lord Donnelly cheerfully. “I was just trying to persuade Miss Duvane here to take a drive with me, the snow not being so bad outside as it looks from inside. Now Miss Duvane says we would have to have a chaperon, but I say it’s all right, she can trust me. It’s only a little drive to Caddam.”
Lady Warburton thought furiously. It seemed insane to pay Donnelly to court Amaryllis now that Merechester seemed smitten by Felicia. On the other hand, Lady Warburton felt sure a sharp little talk with Felicia would soon put a stop to that young lady’s game, and Amaryllis was always an unknown and therefore dangerous quantity.
“Of course you must go, Amaryllis,” said Lady Warburton. “It will bring some color to your cheeks. I have some shopping I wish you to do for me in Caddam.”
Amaryllis resigned herself to her fate, and in a bare half hour’s time, she was seated next to Lord Donnelly in one of the Warburtons’ carriages with the coachman grumbling audibly on the box.
Lord Donnelly whistled jauntily and looked out of the carriage window at the fast-falling snow. He felt each bump in the badly maintained road with satisfaction. He had whispered his plan to Lady Warburton before leaving. If the snow kept falling heavily then there would be no chance of their returning to Patterns. They would rack up for the night at the Green Man, Caddam’s hostelry, and he would contrive to imply on his return that he had enjoyed Miss Duvane’s favors.
Lady Warburton had pretended to be shocked, but Lord Donnelly knew she was secretly pleased. Lady Warburton had, in fact, been estimating the amount of money Amaryllis saved her in unpaid labor.
A disgraced and humiliated Amaryllis would be only too glad to settle down for life at Patterns. She had been splendidly biddable after her unfortunate sortie into governessing.
Lady Warburton and her daughters shared the same lady’s maid, an arrangement made possible only because Amaryllis did all the mending and sewing.
Amaryllis was only too glad to see the wheels of the carriage putting an expanse of white distance between herself and Patterns. She had dressed her hair in a simple but elegant style under a close bonnet embellished with a long ostrich feather. Lady Warburton had looked at it, opened her mouth to say something, and then obviously decided to wait until a more opportune moment.
Amaryllis decided to forget all about the Marquess and simply make up her mind to enjoy herself. She had heard Lord Donnelly described as a prime horseman and trusted his judgment when it came to carrying her safely to Caddam and back.
He paid her many compliments on the journey, talking in such a light, bantering way that Amaryllis’s eyes began to shine and the cold air brought a flattering pink bloom to her cheeks.
Lord Donnelly studied her covertly while talking flattering nonsense with the ease of long practice. There was definitely something about Amaryllis Duvane, he decided.
It wasn’t all there to show like the china-doll beauty of the Warburton girls. You seemed rather to discover different things about her each time you looked. There were her eyes, of course, her finest feature, large and clear and gray without a speck of blue. Then her hair, once it was brushed free from its usually tight prison, was a fascinating auburn with little fiery lights. She was too thin, but she had a well-rounded bosom and a trim waist, and her ankles were quite delicious.
Her voice was low and melodious. At one time, he gathered from bits of gossip, she had been accounted the most beautiful girl in London. He found it easy to believe. The way she deftly parried his compliments showed the sophistication of practice.
He had a momentary pang of regret at the cruelty of what he was about to do. But it soon disappeared. He had received a handsome sum of money from Lady Warburton with the promise of more should he make sure that Merechester would take a dislike to the girl that would last him a lifetime.
He noticed as they neared Merechester that the snow was slackening off, but he had enough money to bribe the coachman to back his tale that it was impossible to return until the following day.
Or the day after, he thought, watching Amaryllis’s glowing face.
They alighted at the Green Man. Lord Donnelly wanted to book a private parlor where they could later have some refreshment, but Amaryllis said firmly it would not be proper, and that they should take something in the public dining room. Since the stagecoaches stopped at the Green Man, there would be plenty of other ladies there as well.
Lord Donnelly cheerfully accompanied her while she made the purchases for Lady Warburton. The day was very dark and cold, and the shops of the small town looked cheerful with their bright candles and colored jumble of goods.
At last they returned to the inn to take tea, and Lord Donnelly muttered an excuse about seeing to the horses and went into the tap in search of the coachman.
This burly individual was just raising a glass of shrub to his lips when Lord Donnelly smoothly told him that Lady Warburton had sent instructions that the coachman was to return with the carriage to Patterns.
“Now why should I do that, me lord?” said the coachman. “What about miss? If I goes back now, there’s no saying I’ll be able to return to fetch her.”
“I’m just passing along orders,” said Lord Donnelly, handing the man a couple of coins.
The coachman, Jim Mason, looked thoughtfully at Lord Donnelly’s ingenuous face. He didn’t like the sound of this. He was one of the servants who admired Amaryllis, and he had not approved of her traveling without a chaperon.
Nonetheless, it was hard to find jobs, especially if he got turned off without a character, which Lady Warburton would most certainly do if he disobeyed orders. Best take the money and wonder what to do on the road home.
He touched his hat. “Very good, m’lord.”
Lord Donnelly went back to Amaryllis, well satisfied.
The Marquess of Merechester relaxed on a sofa in the Yellow Saloon and basked in the warmth of a roaring log fire and in the warmth of all the pretty attentions that the enchanting Felicia was bestowing on him.
He was very much at his ease and was glad he had decided to stay. This was what had been missing from his life, the company of a pretty, undemanding girl.
He found her lisping prattle soothing to his ears. Her eyes were quite beautiful, he reflected. “And so I was engaged to be mawwied,” Felicia was saying, “to some howwid old man in the City because my parents told me it was the wight thing to do, but at the last moment, I told them I couldn’t bear him and I would kill myself if I had to go thwough with it.”
“A terrible loss to the world,” murmured the Marquess, amused.
“I like elegant men, like yourself,” cooed Felicia. “Now why does Cissie keep glaring at me in that awful way? No wonder poor Amaryllis is so awful-looking. Anyone would become hagged having to look at Cissie and Agatha for years.”
The Marquess shifted restlessly. “Where is Miss Duvane?” he asked.
“She has gone out dwiving with that Lord Donnelly. In this weather!”
The Marquess sat very still, staring at the fire.
“She has no doubt taken a chaperon,” he said at last.
“Oh, no. Isn’t it shocking? Not even a maid. But Lady Warburton has asked Amaryllis to do all sorts of shopping, so no doubt she thinks all that work will keep her out of trouble.”
The Marquess felt suddenly restless. The snow was falling very thickly and the light was fading fast. Only a few candles had been lit in the saloon, little pools of yellow light leaving great expanses of black shadow in the corners.
The wind was beginning to rise.
“That will be her returning now,” said Felicia as the sound of horses’ hooves muffled by the snow came from outside.
The
Marquess rose and crossed to the window and looked out. Distorted by the mullioned glass, he could make out the bulk of a coach. Instead of coming to the front door it swung off in the direction of the stables.
The Marquess frowned. He went across the hall and opened the green baize door and made his way down to the kitchens. He walked past the startled servants and seized an old cloak from a peg at the back door, swung it over his head, and made his way across to the stables with a biting wind slashing into his face.
“My lord!” exclaimed the coachman. “What brings you out in this weather? I barely made it home.”
“What is your name?” demanded the Marquess, sliding the cloak down onto his shoulders.
“Mason, an’ it please my lord. Jim Mason.”
“What happened? Did you bring Miss Duvane back with you?”
“No, my lord,” said the coachman, looking miserable. “Lord Donnelly told me Lady Warburton had sent instructions I was to return with the coach, immediate-like. It’s not my place to argue, my lord, but I don’t see how Miss Duvane is going to get back tonight.”
“I will see Lady Warburton later,” said the Marquess. “Tell one of the grooms to have my hunter saddled up and brought into the stable yard.” He fished in his pocket and drew out a coin. A slightly malicious look lit up the Marquess’s blue eyes. “I see no need in telling Lady Warburton that I am going out, do you?”
“No, my lord,” said the coachman, cheerfully pocketing money for the second time that day. “I hope I don’t be speaking out of turn, my lord, but I find it mortal strange that my lady should leave Miss Duvane in the company of a gentleman and them without a chaperon. But do you think you will make Caddam? The weather’s mortal bad.”
“I have ridden in worse,” said the Marquess, turning on his heel.
In under fifteen minutes, he was back in the stable yard, booted and spurred and wrapped up warmly in a drab benjamin.
He would manage to reach Caddam with luck before nightfall. He debated whether to take a groom with him or not and then decided it would be better not to. He felt sure some attempt was being made to compromise Amaryllis, and the fewer witnesses to it, the better.
