by M C Beaton
Later that day he had to endure the wrath of Mr. Graham. Mr. Graham told him in no uncertain terms that he had upset Miss Bliss by proposing to Belinda. The duke reassured him by saying it was Lucy he was affianced to and then stared in amazement as Mr. Graham’s normally calm and sheepish face grew scarlet in outrage.
“You monster!” shouted Mr. Graham, marching off and leaving the duke to stare after him in bewilderment. Mr. Graham should have stayed to explain himself, to say that he himself was in love with Lucy. The duke would, in that case, have promptly canceled the engagement. He thought about his friend’s anger and then decided that it was justified. He had been made to look a fool by that newspaper article, for was it not he who had told Lucy of the black mass?
The duke shrugged. He would see Rufus Graham when he returned from Sarsey and put matters to rights. Meanwhile, he was sure that Lucy had as little intention of marrying him as he had of her. He looked forward with great pleasure and anticipation to seeing how she would go about breaking the engagement.
He would not have felt quite so happy had he known where Rufus Graham had gone. Hurting and smarting, Mr. Graham found himself walking toward Manchester Square. For all at once he knew someone who would sympathize with his hurt.
Lady Fortescue was pleased to entertain him. She had been feeling very low after the scene at Almack’s. She had been sternly reprimanded by one of the patronesses. She had a little hope that Mr. Graham was some sort of emissary from a repentant duke, but hope died when he blurted out that Wardshire was to wed Lucy Bliss.
“Not the pretty one!” exclaimed Lady Fortescue. “You mean the wispy one?”
“Be careful how you describe Miss Lucy Bliss to me,” declared Mr. Graham. “For my heart is broken. He has stolen her from me.”
Lady Fortescue felt a strong feeling of pique. Who was plain little Lucy Bliss to enchant men in this way? She began to wonder whether her own looking glass was lying to her and that she had grown old and ugly overnight.
She turned the battery of her charm on Mr. Graham, for there was only one true mirror, and that was to see herself reflected in a man’s admiring eyes. “How betrayed you have been,” she said. “How wicked of Wardshire.” She took one of Mr. Graham’s hands in hers. “And how wretched you must feel. Tell me all about it.”
And so Mr. Graham did while those hypnotic blue eyes looked tenderly into his own. After talking for almost an hour, he found he could not quite recall what Lucy looked like. He seemed to be drowning bit by bit in those blue, blue eyes.
“Well, Mr. Graham will be sorely disappointed,” said Lucy to Belinda. The hour was two in the morning, and they were both sitting on Lucy’s bed.
“He was a little in love with you, I think.” Belinda wrinkled her brow, fat little wrinkles on her soft skin like on the skin of the puppy she so longed to have.
“A little! I am persuaded, dear sister, that he was about to propose marriage.”
“Perhaps it’s best this way.” Belinda gave a little sigh. “He was not for you.”
“And I suppose Wardshire is?”
“Well, you know, Lucy, you are very high-spirited and clever, and so is he.”
“That will not answer. Men detest clever women. Do you remember the Cartwright girls and their excellent governess? She taught them so well that Mrs. Cartwright became alarmed and gave the poor governess her marching orders, saying she had made the girls as intelligent as men and therefore unmarriageable. I plan to give Wardshire a disgust of me.”
Belinda smiled at her sister placidly. “Do it quickly so that we can all be comfortable again.”
Chapter Six
The Bliss family and their host stopped for the night at a posting house on the road to Sarsey. Lucy was not obliged to make conversation over the dinner table, but then, with Mrs. Bliss around, very few people could manage to get the opportunity to say anything.
As usual, Lucy let the tide of her mother’s voice wash over her, but suddenly sat up straight and listened when Mrs. Bliss said to the duke, “Of course, you may have no fear that Lucy will not be able to manage a large household. I shall be there to train her.”
“No,” said Lucy abruptly.
Mrs. Bliss stopped short. “I mean,” said Lucy, “the housekeeper will be able to explain things to me. It would be better if I started on my own right away. I shall choose the menus, for example.”
“A good idea,” said the duke smoothly, although he wondered what Lucy was up to.
Lucy smiled and stood up. “Now, if you will excuse me…”
“Where are you going, Lucy?” demanded her mother.
“Really, Mama!” Lucy made for the door.
“Oh!” Mrs. Bliss colored, assuming that her daughter was going to the privy.
On their arrival at the posting house, Lucy had spied a likely couple in the common dining room. The duke’s party was dining abovestairs in his private parlor. To her relief, the couple was still there, and as awful as she had remembered them to be.
The woman was tall and overdressed, with a common accent which strove ludicrously to be genteel. She had brassy blond hair under a huge bonnet ornamented with feathers died pink and purple, which clashed with her scarlet and white-striped gown. Her eyelashes were so clogged with lampblack that they looked like spiders. Her bosoms, mostly bared by the lowness of her gown, were, Lucy judged, false ones, made of wax and strapped on. Her companion was a small, foxy man with sparse red hair, a crooked nose, and a knowing look.
Lucy approached them. “I beg your pardon,” she said. “I saw you earlier and was taken by the cut of your gown, madam. I am Miss Lucy Bliss. I wonder whether you would be so good as to furnish me with the name of your dressmaker.”
“Charmed,” said the lady. “But I would not betray the name of my dressmaker, not if you brought in wild ’orses to drag it out o’ me. I’m Mrs. Hardacre, and this is my… husband, Mr. Jonas Hardacre.”
Mr. Hardacre shot to his feet and bowed so low that his nose touched the table.
“Do you belong to these parts?” asked Lucy.
“Naw. We’re stoppin’ here for a few days afore going on south,” said Mr. Hardacre. “What’s it to you?”
“I shall be honest with you. I am affianced to the Duke of Wardshire, whose home, Sarsey, is four hours ride from here. I shall have the running of his house and would like to see how I can manage a little dinner party. You seem to me so congenial, so lively—for I am of a timid disposition, you know—I wondered whether you would honor me with a visit.”
“To Sarsey?” Mr. Hardacre’s little eyes were hard and bright.
“Yes, tomorrow evening. We shall keep city hours, I think. Dinner at seven.”
Mrs. Hardacre visibly preened. “Well, I don’t know, I’m sure, but seeing at how you put it like that, I’m sure we would be delighted to obleege.”
“We’ll be there,” said Mr. Hardacre.
Lucy curtsied to both of them and then darted back up the stairs, where she re-joined the others and sat down at the table with such an air of meek docility that the duke looked at her suspiciously.
Later, in the room that she shared with Belinda, Lucy told her sister what she had done. “And they are so deliciously vulgar,” crowed Lucy. “He will be furious with me. And just wait until you see the menu I have planned for dinner!”
Belinda looked at her sister doubtfully. “Do not go too far, Lucy. I should hate to see Wardshire in a temper. I do not think that would be very pleasant at all!”
They arrived at Sarsey the following morning. After a cold collation, the duke suggested that they all might like to retire to their rooms, for they had left the posting house early. But Lucy said meekly that she would like to start her training right away by choosing the menu for dinner.
Lucy sat in the study downstairs while the chef and the housekeeper were ushered in. Both stood before her with impassive faces while Lucy wrote down the menu. “I think we should begin with calf’s-head soup,” she said, “and then pe
rhaps broiled mackerel after that. For the main dish, broiled bacon cheek, and then as a dessert, bread-and-butter pudding.”
Housekeeper and chef stared at her stolidly. “You see,” said Lucy, smiling on them, “I do not believe in extravagant meals.”
“Very good, miss,” said the housekeeper. “How many will there be at dinner?”
“Myself and my family and His Grace and two guests. Perhaps you should ask His Grace whether he wishes to invite anyone. Any questions?”
“No, miss,” said the housekeeper. “Will that be all?”
“Perhaps you would like to take me on a tour of the house and show me where everything is,” said Lucy.
The housekeeper, a Mrs. Budge, beamed her approval. “We can start right away, miss.”
And unaware that she was making a favorable impression on the servants, Lucy began her tour of the great house. The chef was impressed by her choice of simple fare, which he regarded as a challenge to his art. Also, if this future duchess was going to specialize in ordering only the simplest of items, it meant that the chef, Monsieur Pierre, could put some money in his own pockets. All the servants to whom Lucy was introduced by Mrs. Budge thought she was already like a duchess and had a commanding ease of manner. Had Lucy really been on trial, she would have been terrified, but as it was, it was all just a game to her. As she moved from great room to great room, she reflected that it was just as well she was not going to be a duchess, for the house was vast, with its picture galleries, long galleries, and chains of saloons and drawing rooms, and quite intimidating.
The duke was later informed that Miss Bliss had invited two guests for dinner. He wondered who on earth they could be and then reflected that as Sarsey was in driving distance from Lucy’s country home, she had no doubt invited two of her friends.
Lucy had meanwhile descended to the kitchens and exclaimed over the open fire—albeit one with a clockwork spit—that Monsieur Pierre must have one of the new closed stoves. Open fires were dangerous, and what were called hearth deaths were all too common, servants’ clothes often going ablaze. The Bodley Range was the best model. Monsieur Pierre demurred, saying that the Bodley Range used a prodigious twelve to fifteen scuttles of coal a day, whereupon Lucy said blithely that the duke could well afford the expense, therefore negating her earlier claims of thrift.
As his fiancée was obviously taken up with household matters, the duke escorted the rest of the Bliss family around the gardens. Mrs. Bliss exclaimed loudly at everything. Lucy was obviously, for the first time ever, the favorite daughter, and Mrs. Bliss, when not casting a proprietorial eye over plants and bushes, sang her praises. The duke, then wearying of Mrs. Bliss, suggested, as Lucy was occupied, that he take Belinda on a visit to the vicar. He somehow made it quite plain that he did not include Mr. and Mrs. Bliss in the invitation.
Mrs. Bliss talked feverishly while they waited for the duke’s carriage to be brought round. She fussed over Belinda, sending her upstairs to find a warm shawl to put about her, although the day was fine and warm. When the duke finally drove off, Belinda gave a happy little sigh as her mother’s voice faded in the distance.
“What is the vicar’s name?” she asked.
“Mr. Peter Marsham, a young fellow, not married and therefore pursued ruthlessly by the maids of the parish.”
“How wretched this marriage business is,” said Belinda.
“Indeed! What an odd thing to say when your own sister is about to wed me.”
“It is not as if you or Lucy is in love,” said Belinda.
He experienced a momentary flash of anger. “Then why is she marrying me?”
“To prevent your marrying me,” she said equably. “You did say you would take me if she didn’t want you.”
“Do you mean Lucinda does not want to marry me?”
“At the moment, no,” said Belinda. “But you could change that, I think, if you wished, but you don’t wish. You have saved the social name of Bliss, and it will still be saved when you get Lucy to cry off, and then we can all be comfortable again.”
Having his intentions so plainly read by a mere child of a girl was very lowering for the duke. “Tell me,” he said, “what type of man would Miss Lucy like to marry?”
“Someone like you, I think,” said Belinda earnestly. “Such a pity you went about things the wrong way. Oh, do look at that deer. So graceful!”
He burst out laughing, amused by her mixture of wisdom and naïveté. But he then thought that if Belinda had so correctly guessed his intentions, then Lucy must have guessed them as well.
“Does your sister know that I do not mean to marry her?” he asked.
“No. Lucy is hoping to give you a disgust of her. But please do not tell her you don’t want to marry her.”
“Why, pray?”
“Because you might fall in love with her, and then you might wish you had never said anything.”
“Are you usually so forthright?”
She wrinkled her brow and sighed. “Not always. Mrs. Cartwright, now, she asked me last month what I thought of her bonnet, which was quite dreadful, being of a dismal shade of puce with brown flowers, and I said it was delightful. But these circumstances are so odd. You and Lucy are very alike with your games and strategems. Perhaps you should really marry each other. Either of you would give anyone else a hard time of it. Is this the vicarage?”
The carriage had stopped in front of a stone house so covered in ivy that it was hard to guess the age of the building.
The duke held open the garden gate for Belinda. He knocked on a low door and it was answered by a grim maid of indeterminate years and surpassing ugliness. Belinda wondered whether the vicar had hired the one woman in the local parish who would not nourish hopes of marriage, for it was well known that any single churchman became the romantic object of servant and mistress alike.
They were ushered into a low-ceilinged, stone flagged parlor which had a dismal, well-scrubbed air. The servant left them, and after a few moments the door opened and a young man entered. Mr. Peter Marsham had a head of golden curls, wide blue eyes, and a cherubic, innocent appearance. He bowed low before the duke and Belinda and then sat down nervously on the very edge of a chair.
He appeared very overawed by the duke, thought Belinda as, after the introductions, the vicar answered plain yes and no to various questions. The duke, however, blamed the beautiful Belinda for the vicar’s unease. Usually he and Mr. Marsham talked like old friends. He almost wished he had brought Mrs. Bliss with him.
And then from somewhere at the back of the house came the sounds of shrill barking.
“Oh, have you dogs!” breathed Belinda, clasping her hands, her eyes shining.
“I have a collie bitch,” said the vicar. “She has recently whelped, but I do not know who the father is. The pups look most odd. I suppose I must find homes for them.”
“Could I see them?” pleaded Belinda.
“Of course, Miss Belinda. But they are in the kitchen in a basket. Perhaps Mrs. George could—”
But Belinda was already on her feet. “Oh, I must see them, Mr. Marsham. Pray lead the way.”
Mr. Marsham jumped to his feet as well and knocked over a small table in his agitation. Then he stumbled into the door and, blushing and breathless, managed to open it and usher his guests through.
The kitchen was much larger than the parlor, and at the back of the house. It contained a quantity of black iron implements from the last century, larding needles, skillets, brandreths, griddles, and pot hangers. The table was scrubbed, and the chairs, hard and upright. The floor had been sanded.
In the corner lay the collie beside a large wicker basket out of which four sleepy, yapping puppies were tumbling. The collie was gold and white. The puppies were an odd hairy mixture of black and white and gold, all with paws that seemed too big for them. One of the smallest lollopped toward Belinda, who bent down and scooped up the little creature with a cry of delight. “What is this one called?”
“T
hat’s Barney, the runt of the litter. Farmer Jones was saying I should drown ’em and get it over with, but I am persuaded some kind people may want to adopt my charges.”
Belinda clutched the puppy in her arms. It wriggled ecstatically and licked her nose, and she gave a little crow of delight.
“Are they weaned?” asked the duke.
“Yes,” said the vicar. “They’re old enough for that.”
“If only I could have this one,” said Belinda.
“Pray do take it,” said the vicar. “It would be one less for me to worry about.”
Belinda looked pleadingly over the puppy’s head at the duke. “Mama would never let me.”
“Then I will present it to you to celebrate my forthcoming marriage.”
The light went out of the vicar’s eyes. “Am I to take it that congratulations are in order, Your Grace?”
“They are indeed, but not to Miss Belinda here, but to her elder sister.”
“Then we must drink a toast,” cried the vicar.
“Mrs. George! The best cowslip wine.”
They made their way back to the parlor, Belinda still clutching the puppy. The vicar managed to tread on the train of her white morning gown and stammered his apologies while Belinda smiled at him in a kindly way and said it did not matter at all.
Either it was the cowslip wine or the vicar was elated by Belinda’s friendliness, but he started to talk at a great rate about the beauties of the parish, about the changing seasons, about how the country was infinitely more preferable to the town, and then asked Belinda shyly if she thought the vicarage too dark and poky, used as she obviously was to great houses.
“I think it is delightful,” said Belinda, looking about her. “Or rather it could be. If I were here, I would put some pretty chintz covers on these chairs and make new curtains for the window.” She put her head on one side consideringly. “Just a few touches, you know, a few bowls of flowers and some little ornaments.”
The vicar clasped his hands and looked at her as she sat with the puppy in her lap. He had a vision of paradise, a paradise where he would sit in front of a cozy fire in the evenings working on his sermons while this pretty goddess sat opposite, sewing curtains.
