by M C Beaton
“At the end of the Season. Oh, Rupert, as to that, I will be in the suds for throwing away the best catch on the marriage market.”
“Do not worry—toward the end of the Season I shall be seen in public with a mistress. I shall behave so badly that your parents will damn me and praise you for having the courage to get rid of me.”
“And… and you will not mind?”
“Not I.”
“You will… you will take a mistress?”
“I shall probably engage the willing services of some pretty opera dancer only for the time it will take to show the world that I am a dreadful person.”
“But surely that will ruin your chances of marriage?”
“By next Season the matchmaking mamas will have deliberately forgotten about it. I am rich; I have a title.”
“And that’s the way of the world.” Mira sighed.
“We are approaching the Park, and you are supposed to look radiant. Smile!”
She smiled up at him from under the brim of her jaunty straw hat, and he looked down at her with such loving tenderness that she said shakily, “You do that indecently well, my lord.”
“Rupert,” he corrected. “I am quite fond of you, my chuck, so it comes easily to me.”
She drew a little comfort from this tepid affection and managed to look as happy as she was supposed to be.
Drusilla, being driven by Charles, saw how all eyes were turned to her little sister, saw the envious glances, and felt she almost hated Mira. What was it about Mira? She looked the same, apart from the fact that she was modishly dressed. She had the same odd high cheekbones, the same frizzy hair, and she was much too slim to be fashionable. As their carriage came alongside that of the marquess, Mira smiled and bowed, but the marquess was looking at Mira with such a doting expression on his face that he did not appear to notice either Charles or Drusilla.
“I am surprised,” said Charles in a flat voice as he drove on. “That is a love match if ever there was one.”
“He does not know what Mira is really like,” said Drusilla, two spots of angry color on her cheeks.
“I do not think any of us appreciated Mira’s qualities enough,” said Charles sadly.
“Qualities! What qualities?”
“Humor, gaiety, kindness, and beauty.”
Drusilla fanned herself rapidly. “Let us discuss our future, Charles. Have you written to your regiment?”
“As to that, I have decided not to sell out.”
“What! What of me? I do not want to be an army wife!”
“I am sorry about that.” He folded his lips in a firm line and stared straight ahead.
“I cannot go with you to a barracks. I am too delicate. What if you go to war?”
And then he said those words that ended the engagement: “Mira would follow her husband anywhere.”
“Take me home,” said Drusilla in an even voice, “so that we may tell my parents the engagement is finished.”
“As you wish,” he said with seeming indifference.
Drusilla felt her comforting world of adoring and admiring people collapsing about her ears. She sat in silence all the way home, her back ramrod straight, her face rigid.
They walked together up to the drawing room.
Mr. and Mrs. Markham were both there.
“Papa,” said Drusilla, “our engagement is over. Charles insists on staying in the army.”
“What is this nonsense?” cried Mr. Markham, springing to his feet.
“Furthermore,” went on Drusilla, “I cannot measure up to such a paragon as Mira.” She suddenly burst into tears and fled the room.
Mr. Markham settled down to try to salvage the engagement. In a calmer voice he pleaded that engaged couples were often subject to nerves. But it slowly dawned on him that Charles desperately wanted the engagement to be at an end. There was nothing he could do but agree to it.
When Charles had left, he turned sadly to his wife. “Now we are suffering for our cruelty to Mira.”
“Cruelty? What can you mean, Mr. Markham?”
“We have sadly indulged Drusilla while ignoring Mira. As a result Mira has developed qualities of strength and character that Drusilla lacks. Drusilla has always relied only on her beauty. At least Mira has done well for herself, and Drusilla is still exceptionally beautiful, so she will soon find a new suitor.”
But it never dawned on either of the Markham parents to go and comfort Drusilla.
When Mira returned, they smiled on her, asked her if she had enjoyed her drive, and smiled again when she said, “Very much.”
“We have sad news,” said Mr. Markham. “Drusilla has broken off her engagement with Charles.”
“Why?”
“Charles refuses to sell out.”
“And is Drusilla content with the breaking of the engagement?”
“She left the room in tears, but she will come about. She will soon find another suitor.”
Mira turned, ran upstairs, and went to Drusilla’s room, where she found that young lady facedown on the bed, crying her eyes out.
“Now then,” said Mira, climbing onto the bed and gathering her weeping sister into her arms, “what is all this about?”
“It’s… it’s all y-your f-fault,” sobbed Drusilla. “You took him away from me.”
“That is fustian, you goose, and you know it. Charles has always loved the army.”
“H-he should love me m-more!”
“But you never loved him, Drusilla. You became engaged to him only to spite me.”
“How did you know that?” said Drusilla in naive amazement. She sat up and dried her eyes.
“It’s the sort of thing you would do, sis. So why are you upset?”
“I was looking forward to being married,” said Drusilla. “I felt I was so successful, the first debutante at the Season to be engaged. And Charles is so suitable and so handsome. What am I to do? Everyone will laugh at me.”
“Listen widgeon, everyone will know you broke the engagement, so why will they laugh? The gentlemen will crowd round you again, and you will be the belle of the ball. The only reason you have not been the belle of the ball recently is that you have been engaged.”
“Do you think so?”
“I know so. You must show Charles, too, what he has lost. You must have everyone talking about how kind and charming you are instead of just talking about your beauty. When poor little Mr. Andrews danced with you, you looked every bit as contemptuous of him as you obviously felt. You must be kind to all. Only think how you are hurting now. Other people hurt just as much as you, Drusilla. And you will not look at all beautiful at Vauxhall tonight with red eyes.”
“I cannot go to Vauxhall,” wailed Drusilla. “Charles is to escort us.”
“Then you must start right away. You must be easy and friendly with Charles and tell him on calmer reflection that you are sorry you ever asked him to leave the army.” And I, thought Mira grimly, will look so much in love with Rupert that it should crush any warm feelings Charles might still hold for me.
“Why are you bothering about me?” asked Drusilla. “I have always been nasty to you.”
“We are sisters.”
“So we are,” said Drusilla. “You must advise me on my gown, Mira.”
For Mira it seemed strange to be able to chat easily with her sister as they looked at gowns, gloves, and stoles to put together the most attractive ensemble.
They entered the drawing room together at nine o’clock that evening, both in white muslin with light pelisses over their gowns. Mira was wearing one of the new fashionable Turkish turbans, and Drusilla was wearing a little Juliet cap frosted with silver sequins on her glossy brown hair. Mira immediately went over to the marquess, linked arms with him, and smiled up adoringly into his face while he covered her hand with his own. Drusilla, to her parents’ amazement, prattled easily to Charles as if nothing had happened. It was the usual Drusilla conversation about gloves and gowns, but there were a new vulnerabilit
y and softness about her that enhanced her beauty.
The marquess thought about the strange visit he had had from Mrs. Anderson before he left. The faded spinster had quite strongly pointed out to him that it was his duty to help her, and half-exasperated, half-amused, he had sent her to his mother with a strong letter of recommendation.
Charles was beginning to relax and enjoy himself as they neared the pleasure gardens of Vauxhall by way of Westminster Bridge. The night was calm and clear with a full moon, and as they approached, they could hear the orchestra playing. They were not a fashionable party in that they had arrived in time to watch the performers and see the fireworks display. The high sticklers came after midnight, claiming that they were not entertained by “childish amusements.”
It was Mira’s first visit to Vauxhall, and she was delighted with it all—from the tree-lined walks with their many lanterns to the orchestra playing in the cockle-shaped bandstand.
They had supper in a box and made a cheerful party. Mira was out to forget that her engagement was a sham. As she was falling deeper and deeper in love with the marquess by the minute, it was all too easy to flirt with him.
After supper the marquess said he would take Mira to see the fireworks display, and Charles, after a hesitation, said he would escort Drusilla.
Drusilla waited until they were well away from the box and then said quietly to Charles, “I owe you an apology.”
“For breaking our engagement? Think nothing of it.”
“Not that,” Drusilla tried to remember what Mira had told her to say. A little of the old resentment against Mira rose up in her brain and then fizzled and died. “I should not have asked you to sell out. I have always known you love your army life.” She gave a light laugh. “You have had a lucky escape, Charles. And you are quite right—someone like Mira would make you a more suitable bride.”
This was said without any rancor. There was nothing in the way she said it to make him feel guilty. All about him on the walk, men were stopping to stare at Drusilla. He had not quite been aware in the last week or two what a stir her beauty caused. He did not even have his longing for Mira to take his mind off the broken engagement, for he found it almost impossible to think romantically of a young lady who so obviously doted on another—and quite vulgarly, too, he thought, looking ahead to where Mira was hanging on her marquess’s arm and gazing up into his face.
So he said quietly, “I do love my army life, but I have an apology to make as well. I should not have compared you to your sister. You are both charming in different ways. Do say you will forgive me.”
“Of course, Charles,” said Drusilla lightly. “We have known each other for so long that it would be silly to quarrel now.”
“Do you like fireworks displays?”
Only the day before Drusilla would have said coldly that she considered fireworks displays tiresome because that was what it was fashionable to say. But by copying Mira’s honesty, she hoped to gain some of her sister’s appeal. And so she said, “I adore fireworks displays. I will ooh and aah and clap my hands, and you will consider me a country bumpkin.”
“I have never seen anyone less like a country bumpkin,” said Charles. “We will oooh and aaah and be children together.”
But it was Mira who jumped up and down and hailed every burst of stars above her head with delight.
“You are a rowdy child,” said the marquess after the show was over.
“I am not a child, Rupert.”
“You behave like a child.”
Her eyes flirted up at him. “Do you kiss children, Rupert? Fie, for shame!”
He laughed and steered her off the walk and into the darkness of a glade. “No, I kiss minxes—like this.”
He tilted up her chin. She felt she should stop him, that she was drowning in emotion. She saw his lips descending and closed her eyes. As his mouth closed over her own, she felt her senses reeling. A tide of red, raw passion seemed to start in the pit of her stomach and swell up to her lips.
He at last released her and looked down at her in dazed amazement. “Mira!”
She stared up at him in the darkness, tears glittering in her eyes. “You are wicked, Rupert, wicked.” And she turned and ran away.
He was so startled, he stood there for a long moment before going in pursuit of her.
Charles and Drusilla walked back, arm in arm. “So when do you leave us, Charles?” asked Drusilla, still striving to keep her tone light.
I shall wait until the end of the Season. It is such a long time since I have had any leave. I plan to enjoy it.”
“You will have all the fun of observing me trying to ensnare a suitable gentleman,” said Drusilla. “How tiresome it all is. It is a pity Mira is engaged, or we might have agreed to remain spinsters.”
“You are not meant to be a spinster. But you, Drusilla, are certainly not meant to be an army wife.”
“I never asked enough questions about that,” said Drusilla. “What is it really like?”
“We have a great deal of fun. There are balls and parties, just like in civilian life. We are based in Dover at the moment, as you know. Of course, I would not have expected you to live in barracks were we married, nor would my commanding officer. We should have taken a trim house in town and entertained until such time as my regiment was moved on again. Some of the officers’ wives do not join them, but stay at home and endure the long separations.”
Drusilla sighed. “Perhaps that sort of life might be better than facing up to the fact that I have to allow myself to be courted by some gentleman I really do not know very well. Spinsters, poor things, are so despised. It is not fair!”
Charles steered her around three gentlemen who had come to a standstill to stare at her beauty. His thoughts were beginning to race. This was a different Drusilla. He had been hard on her. He had sorely misjudged her.
“Drusilla,” he said abruptly, “step aside from the walk with me. I think we need to talk further.”
“About what, Charles?” she asked, but she allowed him to lead her from the walk and into the same glade in which the marquess had so lately stood with Mira.
“I feel I owe you an explanation about Mira.”
“That is not necessary,” said Drusilla, turning her face away.
“I was very fond of Mira when she was a child. I was briefly attracted to her, but that is over. Mira and I would never have suited.”
“You say that only because she is spoony about Grantley and no longer available!”
This was only the truth, but Charles suddenly did not want Drusilla to know that.
“That is not true! I think we made a very bad start. Drusilla, why do we not try again—but I shall not sell out.”
Her relief was immense. She had been dreading the rest of the Season, possibly ending up married to some “suitable” man she did not really know. Charles was handsome and kind. She should not give in so easily, but she found herself saying weakly, “Yes, Charles.”
He kissed her gently and chastely on the lips, and then together they moved out of the glade, Charles once more experiencing all the old joy of the attention his beautiful partner was attracting, and Drusilla weak with relief that the engagement was back on.
Mira sat in the box, face white, green eyes glittering with unshed tears. “This is ridiculous!” cried Mr. Markham. “It cannot be off. We have sent a notice of your engagement to the newspapers along with the notice of the cancellation of Drusilla’s engagement. Oh, here is Grantley. My lord, I cannot believe this. Mira tells me the engagement is at an end.”
The marquess’s face was a polite mask. Underneath it he was furious with Mira. He had gone out of his way to help her, and she had repaid him by behaving in this infuriating way, kissing him with a passion he had never experienced before and then running away from him. He was sick of the Markham family. He was sick of the whole thing.
“If that is what Mira wants,” he said evenly, “then allow me to inform the newspapers of the cancellation.�
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“But can we not discuss this?” wailed Mrs. Markham.
The marquess got to his feet and made an elaborate bow. “There is nothing to discuss. You shall not be seeing me again. I plan to go to the country. I am not feeling well and wish to return home. Good night!”
He leapt over the edge of the box and walked away into the night.
Before the Markhams could berate Mira, Charles and Drusilla walked up to the box.
