by M C Beaton
“I confess I do not find prizefights very amusing. Particularly the type of one we have just seen. Look! The sun at last.”
A pale washed-out disc was floating high above hazy veils of ragged cloud. Somehow it made the February day seem bleaker than before. Water dripped steadily from the bare branches of the trees beside the road, and there was mud everywhere.
A muddy goose flew out from under their wheels, its wings outspread. A muddy peasant touched his forelock and gave a toothless grin, and a muddy sheepdog plodded slowly homeward along the muddy ditch.
Freddie shivered, feeling ill and lost in an alien world.
When they reached home, he was conducted upstairs by a stout housekeeper rustling with black bombazine.
He was led along corridors and left in his bedroom to put himself to bed. “My lord’s instructions.”
The room was dominated by a four-poster bed with blue and white hangings. The walls rioted with hand-painted Chinese wallpaper, a whole oriental forest of birds and leaves and branches. In the bay of the window stood two Chinese Chippendale chairs and a Chinese lacquered writing desk.
A small dressing room led off the bedroom in which Freddie found his shabby clothes looking lost and forlorn in an enormous mahogany wardrobe. There was a toilet table with two brass-bound cans of hot water, fluffy towels, and two cakes of Joppa soap.
Freddie found his nightshirt in a chest of drawers, along with his red Kilmarnock nightcap, and pulled them out. Making sure the doors to the bedroom and dressing room were locked, he stripped and washed himself down. Still shivering from the shock of the prizefight, he struggled into his nightshirt, crammed the red cap on his red curls and dived between the sheets, turned his face into the pillow, and wept with fear and loneliness.
A half hour later the earl tried the door of Freddie’s bedchamber and found it locked. He testily asked the groom of the chambers to fetch the spare key and waited impatiently until it was brought to him. Suppose the boy were really ill!
At last the door was opened, and the earl marched in. Freddie was lying fast asleep, his tear-stained face cradled on one hand.
The earl felt himself becoming angry and irritable. The lad was little more than a babe. What on earth was he to do with such a milksop? It was too much responsibility. Here was no dream son to take shooting and hunting but a useless delicate lad who fainted at the sight of blood—for the earl had not believed Freddie’s lie for a moment.
But he gave a little sigh and told the groom of the chambers, Mr. Dawkins, to awake Master Armstrong in time to dress for dinner. Then the earl made his way thoughtfully downstairs, where his butler informed him that Lady Rennenord had called with Mrs. Bellisle and that he had put both ladies in the yellow saloon.
The earl felt a slight stirring of interest. Mrs. Bellisle was a wealthy lady who lived on the other side of Berham. It was in doubt whether there had ever been a Mr. Bellisle.
Lady Rennenord, a distant relative, recently widowed, had arrived a bare month ago to live with Mrs. Bellisle. She was a few years younger than the earl and already was famous for the beauty of her looks and the fashion of her dress. The earl had not met her, although he had seen her at a distance.
He retired upstairs to his bedroom and changed rapidly from the riding clothes he had worn to the boxing match. He walked down the stairs a half hour later in full morning dress: blue swallowtail coat of Bath superfine, buff waistcoat, cravat tied in the Osbaldistone, skin-tight pantaloons, and glossy hessians.
He entered the yellow saloon with a frown on his face, still worrying over the problem of what to do with Master Frederick, but at the sight of Lady Rennenord all thoughts of that irritating weakling left his head.
Lady Rennenord was a faultless, fashionable beauty. Chestnut-brown curls peeped out from beneath a saucy bonnet. Her eyes were large and brown and liquid under full, rather fleshy lids. Her nose was long and straight, and her mouth small enough to please the highest stickler. A riding costume of fine broadcloth in a dark lavender blossom color had been cut to make the most of her splendid figure. It had a high rolled collar, lapeled front, deep cape à la pereline, a broad belt secured in front with a double clasp of steel, and a high ruff of double-plaited muslin sloped to a point at the bosom. Light tan gloves and half shoes of lavender blossom kid completed the dazzling ensemble.
Mrs. Bellisle, her companion, was a hard-featured, mannish woman wearing a drab Joseph and a flat hat. She looked so like a man and spoke in such a gruff, rude manner that it was assumed she was “Mrs.” by courtesy rather than by marriage. No one could ever imagine that any man at one time had been brave enough to take Mrs. Bellisle to his bosom. And no one in the county could ever remember a Mr. Bellisle.
Dropping the earl a curtsy which involved a great deal of cracking joints, Mrs. Bellisle introduced Lady Rennenord.
When they were all seated, Mrs. Bellisle turned her protruding eyes on the earl. “What’s this we hear of you being appointed guardian to old Armstrong’s grandson?”
“I have said nothing,” said the earl sweetly, “but no doubt my servants gossip.”
“Is he a very young man?” asked Lady Rennenord, her voice pleasingly low and well modulated.
“He has eighteen years,” said the earl, admiring the exquisite bloom on Lady Rennenord’s cheeks. “He is unfortunately not very strong. I must admit I find myself at a loss as to what to do with the lad.”
“Not your responsibility, Lord Berham,” barked Mrs. Bellisle. “Send him to the military. Soon make a man of him.”
The earl all at once thought of Freddie’s childlike tear-stained face on the pillow upstairs and frowned.
“May I suggest, my lord,” said Lady Rennenord quickly, “that you hire a tutor for the boy?”
“He is not exactly a boy, Lady Rennenord, although the delicacy and slightness of his figure make him appear one.”
“I mean a tutor to engage his time, a man to take him shooting and instruct him in the other manly arts,” explained Lady Rennenord, dropping her eyes so that her thick eyelashes fanned out over her cheeks.
“A good suggestion,” said the earl. Lady Rennenord was beginning to please him more and more. There was a calmness about her, a suggestion of good breeding and good sense. He could not imagine her perpetrating a vulgar scene or, indeed, expressing any exaggeration of emotion. Her liquid brown eyes reflected a placid, well-ordered mind.
“I would be honored,” went on the earl, “if both my charming visitors would stay to supper.”
“That’s very kind of you, Lord Berham,” said Mrs. Bellisle promptly without waiting to see whether the arrangement suited her fair companion. In truth, Mrs. Bellisle was beginning to scent a romance. It would suit her very well to be rid of Clarissa Rennenord.
Clarissa was a relative several times removed. Mrs. Bellisle had eagerly agreed to give the pretty widow house room, since the pretty widow came with a great deal of money, and, like quite a number of very rich people, Mrs. Bellisle was as clutch-fisted as a pauper. But Lady Rennenord’s money could not outweigh the perpetual irritation of Lady Rennenord’s good sense. Mrs. Bellisle was an autocratic lady who enjoyed bullying, but Clarissa made all the woman’s forays in that direction seem like the wayward tantrums of a spoiled child. Furthermore, Lady Rennenord was not afraid of Mrs. Bellisle in the slightest.
The earl smiled and rang the bell. “Tell Master Frederick to join us here at six o’clock,” he told his butler. “Come, ladies,” he said, “and I will take you on a tour of my hothouses. My gardener, MacNab, has done wonders.”
By the time the small party had returned to the yellow saloon to drink a glass of wine before supper, the earl found that he was enjoying himself. Lady Rennenord had been relaxing company. She knew a great deal about gardening and had even been able to point out to the redoubtable MacNab that his choice of colors for the central flower bed in the great lawn was a trifle garish, but she had added with a forgiving smile that since the seedlings had already been plan
ted, there was little he could do about it short of digging everything up and starting again.
She professed herself eager to meet the earl’s ward. “Delicate young men,” she said, “often blossom under a woman’s touch. My brother, I believe, would be just the man to find a tutor for the boy. You do not want a learned man but someone skilled in the gentlemanly arts.”
“Well, we’ll see what you make of Master Frederick.” The earl smiled. “I believe he has arrived.”
The door opened, and the slight figure of Freddie Armstrong edged around it.
He stood blinking in the light, his pale, delicate face overshadowed by his crown of thick red curls. He had violet circles under his eyes. The earl made the introductions. Freddie bowed to each lady and then took a chair in the corner and sat down. He was tolerably dressed in a morning coat of old-fashioned cut, and his cravat had been tied by his lordship’s valet.
“We have been discussing your future, my boy,” said the earl heartily. “Lady Rennenord had suggested I engage a tutor for you, someone who will coach you in the manly arts.”
Was it a trick of the light, or did Freddie turn even paler?
“You certainly need building up,” said Mrs. Bellisle. “Puny little thing, ain’t you?”
“Now, Mrs. Bellisle,” chided Lady Rennenord gently, “you must not embarrass the boy. A few weeks of exercise and country air will put him on his feet.”
The earl smiled at her gratefully. Freddie locked eyes with Lady Rennenord, and for one brief moment a flash of dislike flickered across his blue eyes.
Lady Rennenord’s mouth tightened almost imperceptibly at the corners. “Yes, Master Frederick,” she said sweetly, “by the time your tutor has finished with you, you will have the makings of a fine young man.”
Freddie lowered his eyes.
From that moment on, he hated Lady Rennenord.
Chapter Two
The arrival of the tutor was hailed with relief by everyone except Master Frederick. Lady Rennenord’s brother, Harry Struthers-Benton, had “turned up trumps,” as he had put it, by finding a suitable individual.
The earl did not know, that Mr. Struthers-Benton was hailed as a “loose screw” even by his intimates. On receiving his sister’s request, he had enthusiastically forgotten about the whole thing until he had run across a certain Captain Cramble at a coffeehouse. Whether the brave captain had earned his rank at sea or in the military was hard to ascertain, but he claimed to be a past master at instructing young sprigs of the nobility in the manly arts, and the weak and shiftless Mr. Struthers-Benton had hired him on the spot.
Had the earl not been chafing to spend a little more time in Lady Rennenord’s fair company and less in that of the seemingly ever-present Frederick, he might have cast a doubtful eye on Captain Cramble. But the responsibility of his guardianship was beginning to weigh heavy on him, and so he engaged the captain on the spot and turned Freddie over to him with a sigh of relief.
In the two weeks before the captain’s arrival, Lady Rennenord had been a constant visitor. The weather had been unusually warm and mild, ideal for saunters in the grounds and pleasant dalliance. But where the earl and Lady Rennenord went, Master Frederick went too, his slight figure always at the earl’s elbow. To tell the boy to run away would be to admit that his intentions towards Lady Rennenord were serious, and the earl did not yet want to commit himself.
Freddie was always courteous to his lady, but an undercurrent of animosity seemed to run between the two, spoiling the pleasure of the sunny days and tranquil evenings.
The earl had, however, found the boy stronger and more resilient than he had first thought. Master Freddie turned out to be a first-class horseman and an expert fencer. Still, the good captain would take the boy off his hands for a bit, thought the earl, so that he might make up his mind whether to propose to Lady Rennenord.
Her calm good sense intrigued him as he had never been intrigued before. Her liquid brown eyes rested on him with calm approval, but he longed to see them flash with passion. Nonetheless, he trusted her good sense so much that since she appeared to find no fault with the captain, it naturally followed that he should find nothing wrong with the man, either.
At first sight, Captain Cramble seemed a likeable sort, if a trifle too stout in the figure for such a master of sport. He had a very red face and pale eyes and reminded Freddie forcibly of Sheridan’s caustic description of Dr. Arne, “two oysters in a plate of beetroot.” He had great, heavy, plump hands and kept clapping Freddie heavily on the shoulder and calling him “my boy.”
To Freddie’s relief, however, the captain’s instruction seemed to involve a great deal of talk and not very much action. As the earl appeared totally absorbed in Lady Rennenord’s company, the captain soon settled down to a comfortable routine, not rising before noon, and then taking Master Frederick down to the local inn for “a glass or two,” since the captain held to the maxim that every young sprig should learn to hold his wine.
These sessions were long and boring for Freddie, who did not care to drink much and emptied most of his glasses on the sawdust of the inn floor until such time as he should have to help his drunken tutor home.
But Freddie was miserable. He had grown very fond of his stern and handsome guardian and was sure the earl was about to make a disastrous mistake by proposing to Lady Rennenord. Lady Rennenord, Freddie decided, was a serpent in this Eden, a shrewd, hard, and calculating woman devoid of human kindness or warm feelings. Now he was tied to this wine sack of a tutor. Any complaint to the earl would, he was sure, be countered sweetly by Lady Rennenord.
One sunny day, when his tutor had passed out after a particularly lengthy session at the Old Bell, Berham’s public house, Freddie went in search of his guardian.
He saw the gnarled figure of MacNab, the gardener, bent over a flower bed. “Where is my lord, MacNab?” he asked.
The gardener straightened up. “With my leddy, in the herb garden,” he said sourly. “My leddy is no doubt telling my lord o’ all the things I’ve done wrong.”
Freddie flew off in the direction of the herb garden. It was enclosed in old sun-warmed gray walls at the back of the mansion. He stopped at the entrance, his hand to his mouth.
Lady Rennenord was wearing a bright green satin redingote with a spot pattern of darker green. On her glossy hair she sported a poke bonnet with curling ostrich plumes. She looked as if she had walked out of one of the glossy pages of La Belle Assemblée.
The earl was hatless and dressed in riding clothes. His head was bent over Lady Rennenord’s hand. He was about to kiss it. The air was still and warm.
“No!” shouted Freddie.
Both heads jerked up. The earl strode towards Freddie, looking furious. “No, what?” he demanded.
“I saw a great spider crawling up the back of Lady Rennenord’s gown,” said Freddie, blushing scarlet and improvising wildly.
Lady Rennenord did not even twist her head. She simply stood looking at Freddie with a wise little smile on her face.
“Are you sure?” demanded the earl, striding back to join Lady Rennenord.
“Oh, do not trouble, my lord,” said Lady Rennenord. “I am persuaded the spider has disappeared. Don’t you think so?” she demanded of Freddie, her eyes fixed on his flushed face.
“But it was there! I saw it!” said Freddie passionately.
“Where is Captain Cramble, young man?” demanded the earl.
“Asleep,” said Freddie, suddenly cheerful. “So I am free to accompany you.”
“Do you speak French?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Do you know the meaning of de trop?”
Freddie flushed. Lady Rennenord smiled a small, cool smile and studied a plant with great interest.
“Yes, my lord,” mumbled Freddie, thinking desperately. “My lord,” he said. “I think you really ought to take a look at Captain Cramble. He is breathing most peculiarly.”
“Are you bamming me?” demanded the earl wr
athfully. “First a mythical spider, and now the captain’s breathing.”
“Oh, no!” said Freddie, looking at him with limpid blue eyes. “And he is a most peculiar color.”
“Excuse me, Lady Rennenord,” said the earl curtly. “This will not take long.”
“Poor Lord Berham.” Lady Rennenord laughed. “All the pains of marriage without any of the pleasures.”
“Exactly,” replied the earl, looking at her with a wicked gleam of amusement in his dark eyes.
He walked away with long strides, with Freddie running at his heels.
The earl strode into the captain’s bedchamber. The curtains were closed, and the sound of stertorous breathing came from the bed.
The earl jerked open the curtains so that pale sunlight flooded the bedchamber. He turned and looked down at the captain. The captain’s red face seemed even redder than ever, and his mouth was open. The earl bent his head and sniffed.
“Faugh!” he said, retreating a pace. “The man’s drunk. How came this about?”
“The good captain was teaching me the manly arts of drinking,” said Freddie with a sweetness worthy of Lady Rennenord.
The earl picked up a can of water from the toilet table and hurled the contents full in the captain’s face. Then he turned to Freddie as the captain came awake, gasping and spluttering.
“Leave us,” he snapped.
Freddie ran lightly down the stairs again, whistling cheerfully.
He went into the little-used drawing room and sat down at the pianoforte and proceeded to play a triumphant piece by Handel with great verve.
Suddenly he heard voices from the terrace outside, coming closer. He let his fingers rest on the keys and tilted his head to one side, listening.
“There was no need for you to call,” came Lady Rennenord’s voice. “I am too old to need a chaperone, and in truth, I have been dogged everywhere I go by Master Frederick.”
“Perhaps it’s just as well,” came Mrs. Bellisle’s barking voice. “A little difficulty in the path of love is a good thing. My lord has escaped marriage this long. He is not likely to propose without a great deal of thought. Perhaps Master Frederick is supplying the necessary frustration.”
