by Carola Dunn
Lady Emma however, was cheerful. “You have the steps very well Alison. I believe one more lesson will be enough. But though Signor Pascoli is excellent for the set dances, it is impossible to learn to waltz properly without a partner. You need to practice with a gentleman.”
“Do I sense a cue?” enquired Mr. Trevelyan, at his most sardonic. He performed an elaborate bow to Alison. “I plainly see where my duty lies. Pray grant me the honour of this dance, Miss Larkin.”
She accepted graciously, winning a nod of approval from Lady Emma, who began to play. Signor Pascoli had instructed Alison without so much as touching her arm, and at first she was disconcerted to feel Mr. Trevelyan’s hand at her waist. However, his expression was so distant that she soon forgot her embarrassment.
If his manner was stiff, his dancing was far from it. He spun her about the room until she felt she was flying. It was a sad let-down when the music stopped and she sank in a breathless curtsy.
“Really, Philip, did you have to make the child giddy?” Lady Emma reproved, laughing.
“No effort on my part was necessary,” he said enigmatically. “She followed my lead beautifully. May I hope you will stand up with me at Almack’s, Miss Larkin?”
“Thank you, sir, I should love to but I do not expect to attend the assemblies there.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You don’t sound devastated. Perhaps you have not heard Henry Luttrell’s verse:
“All on that magic LIST depends,
Fame, fortune, fashion, lovers, friends:
‘Tis that which gratifies or vexes
All ranks, all ages, and both sexes.
If once to Almack’s you belong,
Like monarchs, you can do no wrong;
But banished thence on Wednesday night,
By Jove, you can do nothing right.”
Lady Emma frowned. Alison thought it unkind of him to point out to her the disadvantages of her situation, but she would not allow him the satisfaction of knowing she minded.
She said tranquilly, “Indeed, I am having so much fun already, I cannot think that I shall miss that one experience. Lady Emma says I shall be going to any number of parties and balls. And I understand the suppers at Almack’s consist of bread and butter and stale cake! I am used to better fare, I promise you, for my aunt Cleo is a splendid cook.”
This time Lady Emma’s frown was directed at her.
“My dear, I beg you will not be forever talking about your aunts.”
“No, ma’am, I shall try not to, but you must not expect me to disown them.” She felt her cheeks grow hot with indignation.
“Of course not,” said Mr. Trevelyan calmly. “You have not seen your family, I think, since you came here. Perhaps you would permit me to take you to visit them one day?”
Surprised and grateful, she accepted. She did not know what to make of him. One moment he implied that she was a giddy girl and prophesied dire consequences of her inability to obtain vouchers for Almack’s. The next, he defended her against Lady Emma and offered to take her to a house he had clearly despised on sight. There was no understanding the man.
Had she but known it, Philip did not understand himself. He had always prided himself on his levelheaded common sense, the superiority of his taste and the regularity of his habits. His work absorbed his energies, though he did not neglect his social life. If there was anything he detested it was vulgarity, yet here he was, lending countenance to the foisting on the ton of a chit with no pretensions to gentility.
He admired Alison’s determination not to cast off her plebeian aunts. That scarcely seemed reason enough for him to drive her to that appalling neighbourhood to see them!
Only his sense of duty kept him from crying, off. Though he had made the offer on the spur of the moment, he realized that the visit would serve his purpose very well. He had resolved to investigate “Aunt Cleo’s gang,” but it made him uncomfortable to have an ulterior motive for what Miss Larkin doubtless saw as an act of kindness. Either she was the innocent she appeared, or else she was a superb actress. He hated the thought that she might be mixed up in anything havey-cavey.
* * * *
On the day of the outing, the chill drizzle that fell unrelentingly all morning dealt a death blow to his enthusiasm, never robust. Stoically he set off for Emma’s house, hoping that her protégée would have the wit to choose to stay home in such inclement weather.
“But surely your carriage has a hood?” she asked in surprise when he suggested a postponement. “And an apron?”
“Yes, and I have brought an umbrella,” he admitted grudgingly.
“Then I do not see why. . . Oh, I beg your pardon, perhaps it is inconvenient for you to take me?”
“Not at all.” He was unable to bring himself to disappoint her. “Let us be off.”
It was impossible to remain disgruntled with a pretty young lady—he would provisionally grant her that status—sitting beside him and commenting with pleasure on the most unlikely things.
“How green the grass is in the rain,” she said as they crossed the top of Grosvenor Square. “The trees must be drinking, and preparing themselves to burst into leaf. Spring is quite the nicest season of the year.”
“Until summer comes?” he teased. “Autumn has its pleasures, too, and even winter. A crisp, clear day with the world blanketed with snow is as beautiful as any sight I know, and nothing can beat coming in out of the cold and roasting chestnuts by a roaring fire.”
“I have never seen clean snow,” she said wistfully. “In London it is grey before it touches the ground.”
Nor was she accustomed to a roaring fire, he realized. A poverty-stricken winter in Town must indeed make spring a welcome arrival. “Are you cold?” he asked.
“Not at all. I have my new muff. I had thought to buy fur, but Lady Emma said it is ostentatious and I am sure it could not be warmer than mine. This is stuffed with feathers, you see, and the cover matches my cloak. Is it not splendid? I hope your hands are not cold? I would lend you my muff but I cannot quite see how you would drive.”
“I shall pass the reins to you, of course.”
She laughed. She had the most delightful laugh, full of gaiety with a hint of mischief, matching the twinkle of her blue eyes. “I think even two such well-behaved horses as Spaniard and Conqueror might take exception to that,” she teased in return, “but I am willing to try, if you wish to borrow the muff.”
“Heaven forbid. The art of driving a pair is not mastered in a few minutes, Miss Larkin.”
“I rather thought not. Oh. do not turn here. If you go round the other way the streets are much pleasanter.”
Philip was not used to taking directions from a female, but the route she pointed out did avoid the worst of the slums. Though they drove past a corner of the grim wall of the Foundling Hospital, on the whole the houses were respectable if not elegant. He turned into Great Ormond Street.
“I trust your friend Bubble will be available to walk my cattle?” It was like probing a sore tooth: he could not resist the distasteful subject of her acquaintance with the street boys.
“Do you mean to come in? I had not expected. . .”
“Surely you do not intend to leave me out here in the rain?”
“No, of course not. I had not thought. . . The mews is just across from our house, down that alley between the houses on the other side. I daresay they will take care of the horses.”
Bubble was absent but an equally grubby urchin, whom Miss Larkin addressed as Sammy, was sent scurrying after an ostler from the livery stables. The groom he fetched looked reasonably respectable. Philip grudgingly entrusted his precious pair to him. A few minutes later a neatly dressed maid ushered them into an entrance hall that smelled faintly of paint.
They were instantly and vociferously greeted by three small white terriers.
“Down, Flake; down, Drop, Goose.” Her voice was imperative and the dogs obeyed at once. “Where is Midnight? Oh, there you are, boy.”
> The huge Newfoundland Philip remembered approached at a more dignified pace which failed to hide his eagerness. He leaned against Alison lovingly and Philip hurried to brace her.
“Thank you! I had forgot how heavy he is.” She scratched the big black head.
“You guessed the significance of my horses’ names, now let me guess your dogs’. Snowflake, Snowdrop and Snow Goose?”
Hearing their names the terriers set up a clamour again, as Alison nodded, laughing.
“Hush!” she commanded.
In the sudden quiet the maid was heard to ask plaintively, “Can I ‘ave the umbrolly, if you please, sir. It’s dripping on the floor.”
Philip handed it over and helped Miss Larkin out of her cloak. This operation was more complicated than it need have been because she was not concentrating. Her gaze was fixed on the umbrella stand, a strange-looking object that appeared to have toenails.
“It must be Aunt Zenobia’s,” she said uncertainly. “What is it?”
“It’s an elephant’s foot,” announced a lean, elderly woman who joined them at that moment. Her voice was hushed and full of awe. “It’s the foot of the elephant that stepped on poor Mr. Winkle.”
There was a stunned silence.
“How…sad,” said Miss Larkin.
Philip heard a tremor in her voice and did not dare catch her eye. It might be distress at her uncle’s unusual end, but he had a feeling she was finding it as hard as he was not to burst into whoops of laughter.
“It’s lovely to see you, Alison dear.” The woman sounded brisk and practical now, as if she had never disclosed such a distressing demise.
“Oh, Aunt Di, how I’ve missed you all!” They hugged each other. “Let me present Mr. Trevelyan, who was so kind as to bring me. Sir, this is Aunt Di—Miss Di, I suppose, since Aunt Polly is the eldest.”
“How do you do, Miss Diana.” Philip bowed.
“Di,” she said firmly. “Thank you for bringing our girl to see us, Mr. Trevelyan. Bess, please tell the others that Miss Alison is come and then bring tea to the parlour. Now you know you are not allowed in the parlour. Stay.”
After a startled moment, Philip realized that she was addressing the dogs. All humans present went into a room hung with bright green silk, embroidered with tigers and hummingbirds in black, orange, crimson and gold. Judging by Alison’s dazed face, the room was newly decorated.
“It is a bit gaudy,” said Miss Di apologetically. “Zenobia is so hard to dissuade when she has set her heart on something. We did manage to keep our bedchambers the way they were, just refurbished. Won’t you sit down, Mr. Trevelyan? Oh bother, Midnight has come in. She will be annoyed, but he is used to being allowed in here and when he is determined it is beyond me to stop him.”
“Beyond anyone, I imagine, ma’am.” Philip was about to take a seat when two more elderly ladies entered. He was introduced to Aunt Cleo, plump and somehow comfortable-looking, and Aunt Polly, who seemed to drift rather than move of her own volition.
Alison hugged them both and they returned her embrace with fervour, obviously delighted to see her. At last everyone was seated and the maid brought tea and cakes. Mindful of Alison’s remarks about her aunt’s superior baking, Philip took particular note of the cakes, but upon tasting them determined that they were not very good. He was wondering whether a polite lie was in order when Alison set down her Bath bun, with a large bite missing, and looked anxiously at Miss Cleo.
“Have you been ill, Aunt Cleo?”
The plump old lady’s face crumpled. “No, dear, I am very well,” she said gruffly.
“We did not mean to tell you,” said Miss Di, while Miss Larkin—Aunt Polly—tried in vain to nod and shake her head at one and the same time.
Philip could not reconcile these three harmless, and presently unhappy, old biddies with the gang of guttersnipes Alison had mentioned. He had come intent on investigating that gang, and now it seemed he was about to be plunged into a domestic crisis.
Alison had moved to a footstool at Miss Di’s feet and was holding her hands. “Tell me,” she urged.
‘‘It’s Zenobia. . .”
It was indeed. The door opened and a vast figure swathed in purple silk swam into the room, preceded by a waft of patchouli-scented air. Improbably red hair fringed a white, native-style turban in which was pinned the most enormous amethyst Philip had ever seen. He rose to his feet as the apparition surged forward.
“Aunt Zenobia, this is Mr. Trevelyan. He is a friend of Lady Emma.”
“Pleasure to meet you, I’m sure,” gasped Mrs. Winkle, sinking into a chair. “Just let me catch my breath. My umbrella split and I had to make a dash for it. Thank you, dear—yes, three spoons of sugar, that’s right—how clever of you to remember. Well, Alison, let me look at you now.” Her lack of breath seemed to have no effect on the flow of words.
Alison handed her the cup of tea and performed a graceful curtsy. She was wearing a gown of the palest lilac, high-necked and long-sleeved. A dark blue ribbon tied just beneath the bosom—Philip hastily averted his gaze, feeling his pulse quicken—trailed loose down the center of the skirt to the hem, so that the two ends fluttered when she moved.
‘‘Hmm,” said Mrs. Winkle dubiously. ‘‘Very elegant, I’m sure, but I like a bit of colour myself. A nice cherry stripe, or one of these new Scotch tartans would suit you to a T. Or better yet, I’ve plenty of stuffs put away that I brought home with me. The natives know what’s what when it comes to pretty colours, I’ll give them that.”
‘‘Lady Emma says a girl in her first Season must wear only pastels, Aunt, and white for evening parties.”
“I’ll have a word with Lady Emma before I leave, and we’ll soon have you bang up to the nines, mark my words.”
Though Alison blenched, the interest this comment aroused among the rest of the Misses Larkin had nothing to do with fashion.
“Leave?” queried Miss Di hesitantly.
“Mrs. Colonel Bowditch ain’t happy in London. No one understands her, she says. Not that I pay much mind to such things, but I told her straight, I said, ‘It’s Cheltenham you want.’ I’ve heard there’s lots of us India hands living in Cheltenham, you see. So Mrs. Colonel Bowditch is thinking of leasing a house in Cheltenham, and I promised to go along to advise her.” She heaved herself to her feet. “I’d best go get my ayah started on the packing, for we’re off tomorrow. I’ll be gone several weeks, but you needn’t think I mean to leave you in the lurch, Alison. Ralph Osborne has promised to keep an eye on you for me.”
Alison looked dismayed, but as Mrs. Winkle sailed out, Philip caught gleams of relief and hope in the eyes of the rest of her aunts. He was intrigued. What, he wondered, was going on here?
CHAPTER SIX
“What is going on here?” asked Alison. “You are all in raptures.”
“It’s not that we are not grateful,” said Aunt Di guiltily. “It is very pleasant not to have to worry over every last farthing.”
“I never would have thought a fire in my chamber could make such a difference,” put in Aunt Polly timidly, casting a scared glance at Mr. Trevelyan.
Alison looked at him. Though he must be bored, he had the courtesy to hide it with an expression of polite, but not excessive interest, a careful medium between inquisitiveness and indifference. She returned her attention to her troubled aunts.
“It’s just that we have nothing to do,’’ blurted out Aunt Cleo. “And the food is. . .well, I don’t mean to boast but. . .”
“Atrocious,” said Aunt Di firmly. “Why, the woman can scarcely boil an egg without cracking the shell. You see, Alison, Zenobia has hired a whole army of servants. It’s all very well having a parlourmaid and a housemaid, and even a scullery maid, but the cook and the gardener are upsetting poor Cleo and Polly shockingly.”
“And now that Zenobia is going away, we can turn them off,” said Aunt Cleo in triumph.
“Oh, no, you cannot do that.” Alison was adamant. “Only think how she will f
eel when she returns and learns that you have rejected her generosity. She will be sadly hurt.”
“Zenobia’s generosity is positively oppressive,” muttered Aunt Di, rebelling.
“And think of the boys,” Aunt Cleo reminded her. “If Polly can’t grow her flowers and I can’t bake, they will starve.”
“I had not thought so far,” Alison admitted. She noticed that Mr. Trevelyan, whose presence she had almost forgot, was surprisingly alert. He caught her eye and promptly resumed his carefully indifferent expression. She was puzzled, but she had more important matters to consider. “Oh dear, if they have nothing to sell I am afraid they may turn to thievery. Aunt Polly, surely you can make use of the gardener?”
Aunt Polly looked terrified.
“You must not allow him to intimidate you. He should do the heavy digging and the dirty work under your direction. There is no reason why he should dictate what is grown and when it is picked. You will have time to experiment with other flowers, to find out which stay fresh in a basket and which sell well.”
“I shall speak to the fellow,” announced Aunt Di, “as soon as Zenobia is out of sight. You may trust me to deal with him. But what of the cook, Alison? It’s no good saying she must be set to scrubbing pans, for there’s the scullery maid to do that, and besides, I daresay it’s beneath her dignity. She does run on about her dignity whenever Cleo tries to explain to her how to do things right.”
“Yes, she must go or you will all fade away.” Alison’s grin was wicked. “I have it! You must persecute her, Aunt Cleo. Keep interfering and meddling and giving orders until her dignity cannot bear it. If she leaves of her own choice, Aunt Zenobia cannot be offended.”
“That’s a splendid idea.” Aunt Cleo was enthusiastic. ‘‘I’ll be that happy to get back to selling my. . .”
She stopped in alarm.
Aunt Zenobia stood in the doorway. “There’s not the least need to be wearing yourself out making a few pennies, Cleo,” she said indulgently. “You know if there’s any little thing you want you must just ask me.”
