by Joan Smith
“Of course, my dear, but I am sure you will behave very nicely. It will be like having a daughter at last.”
They parted in perfect harmony.
Chapter Two
Lord Severn received another surprise when he inquired for Lady Helena’s trunks at the ship. “Lady Helena Carlisle,” he repeated, becoming impatient with the junior officer who assisted him. “She arrived this very day.”
“Ah, you mean Señorita Carlisle, the Spanish lady! She asked us all to call her so,” the junior officer explained. “Her trunks are ready and waiting. I promised her I’d attend to it personally.”
He led Severn back to the gangplank and pointed to a small mountain of luggage already piled on a wagon. “There it is,” he said. “The wagons come looking for work when a ship docks.”
“Thank you,” Severn said, and gave his address. “Lady Helena mentioned a bandbox she wished me to bring.”
“I have that locked in my own cabin. I told her she should take it with her, but you know how much heed she pays to anyone. It was locked away, and she was eager to be off.”
Severn frowned at this revelation of intimacy with the ship’s officers. He got the bandbox and went to his carriage, determined to have a stern talk with Lady Helena before she was introduced to society. He returned at once to Belgrave Square with the bandbox and had it taken abovestairs. Of Lady Helena he saw not a trace for another four hours.
Her trunks arrived and were taken up to her. A servant unpacked while Helena oversaw the work. She rather enjoyed the interval. Since the French invasion of Spain, her life had been sorely unsettled. Although the war did not rage around Jerez, her papa had moved her many times; she had lived in castles and tents, in mansions and one convent, and it felt good to finally have a room—and a life—to call her own.
The good sisters would not be calling her to prayers at all hours of the day. No gunshots in the night to frighten the life out of one. No shortages of food. She would gladly have remained in Spain with her father, but he worried so. “Go home to England and enjoy your youth,” Papa had said. “It comes only once, and it does not last long.”
These rooms were the rooms to which she would return after her various rounds of pleasures. They were attractive, in a quiet way. Rooms in Spain were more highly garnished, usually with a deal of gold and red. The windows of her bedchamber and adjoining withdrawing room were hung in green damask. The walls bore nature scenes of birds and trees and flowers, delicately painted by hand on a fading cream background. A carved canopied bed dominated the bedchamber. It was dark and heavy. Helena felt she would spend more time in the little sitting room, with its grate, comfortable bergère chairs, and the dainty writing desk.
She had her stationery unpacked and arranged it in the cubbyholes of the desk. She would have to have new stationery printed, as the English, unlike the Spanish, used a title for the children of their lords. Lady Helena, she would be called here. The English had a strange, harsh way of pronouncing it. At home, it was pronounced more fluidly: Aylehna.
Lying on top of her private stationery was a letter addressed simply to Moira. Moira, Señora Petrel-Jones, was Papa’s lover. Helena knew that they had had an argument and Moira had left Spain. She had wanted to get a divorce and marry Papa, but he would not allow her to lower herself. It was uncertain that Helena would be able to deliver the letter. Papa had written it in the hope that she would find Moira when she reached London and eventually get the letter to her.
Spain was not so unnatural as to look down on a respectably married lady taking a lover, but a divorced! It was not the thing. Word had leaked back to Spain that Mr. Petrel-Jones had died, so now the coast was clear for Moira and Papa to marry. The letter was an offer of marriage, begging Moira to return. Helena would make every effort to deliver it, for Papa would be lonesome now, with his daughter gone.
There was a tap at the door, and Lady Hadley peeped her head in. “It is only I, Helena,” she said. “You will need someone to help you dress for dinner. I suggest Sally. She does for me when my woman’s arthritis is acting up.”
“Is Sally the one with the pecas?” She rubbed her nose.
“You mean freckles? Yes, poor Sal is sadly afflicted with a bran face, but she is clever with hair.”
“Excellent, Madrina. You will help me find servants, si?”
“There is no need for that, my dear. Algernon sent me a great deal of money to cover any little extra expenses. You must use my servants. That is all taken care of.”
“But no! Papa told me I must not be a burden to you. I shall require a groom as well, for I mean to set up my own carriage en seguida.”
“I am not sure folks drive their carriages en seguida here, but if it is some new thing, Edward will know about it.”
“It means right away. I must try to speak only English.”
“That might be best, at least until I get the hang of Spanish,” her godmother replied foolishly. “And meanwhile Sal will do for you. We dine at eight, my dear.”
“So early?”
“Early? Why, eight is pretty late. In the country, folks eat at six. But I see what it is. They go changing the time when you travel, I have heard of this trick before. So confusing. I don’t know why they bother, but then if we all spoke the same language and had the same time, what would be the point of traveling?”
Helena blinked in surprise at this farrago of nonsense. It was becoming clear where Lord Severn had gotten his small brain. “I shall be downstairs at eight. Is it to be grande toilette, or only family?”
“We thought you might be fagged this evening and have not invited guests.”
“That is very thoughtful. Gracias, Madrina.”
“Do you know, Helena, I think I am learning this Spanish already. I know gracias means thank you, for I have heard it before somewhere or other, and now I know madrina means godmama. I shall speak it—en seguida!” she said, and smiled triumphantly.
“¡Bueno!”
When the unpacking was finished, Helena dismissed the other servant, keeping Sally behind. “You are to assist me with my toilette,” she said, sitting before the mirror at her toilette table. “Lady Hadley says you are good with hair. I hope you can do something with mine.” She removed half a dozen pins, and a cascade of sable hair fell in ripples to her shoulders.
“Lordy!” Sally exclaimed. “I never handled such a lot of hair as this before. It looks like a curtain.”
“It is a great nuisance,” Lady Helena said. “My papa liked it long, but now that I am in England I shall have it cut off.”
Sally lifted the raven tresses. They rippled silkily through her fingers. “It seems a shame, though.”
“¡Caramba! You speak like my papa. No importa. Tonight you have only to arrange it. You can do this?”
“I can pin it up, milady, if that’s what you mean.”
“Exactamente.”
Sal worked her wizardry on Helena’s hair, and when it was twisted and coiled into elegance, Helena selected her gown, a shimmering emerald green with black lace. With it, she wore her mama’s emerald necklace. The gown clung to her waist and billowed in folds below. The bodice revealed the swell of satiny bosoms.
No Spanish maiden would have been allowed to appear in public in such a gown. Like most of Helena’s outfits, it had belonged to her mama. Dressmaking had ground to a virtual halt with the onset of the war, and a young girl rapidly outgrowing her short gowns had to wear something. Helena realized it was daring, but then England was well known for its debauched morals, second only to France in that interesting respect.
She took a long look in her mirror before going below. She could wish for another two inches of material at the bodice of her gown, but overall, she knew she looked well. A pretty face covered a multitude of peccadilloes. She lifted her skirt and strode imperiously to the staircase.
“Like the Queen of Sheba” was the way Sal described her to her colleagues when she returned to the kitchen. “More gowns than Lettie Lade, and
brighter in color, too, with sparklers to match each one. That lady will nab herself a royal prince.”
“Like a pricey bit o’ muslin” was Severn’s first impression when he beheld this alleged deb floating down the grand staircase. If Queen Charlotte should see her now, she would never permit Lady Helena to make her bows.
As she descended toward him, Helena noticed that Severn was very interested in either her emeralds or her bosoms. When he raised his eyes, he saw her gazing at him with a tolerant but faintly derisive smile.
“Good evening, Lord Severn. I hope I am not late.”
“Good evening, Lady Helena. It is well we are dining alone, for in England, debs wear white gowns—of modest cut,” he added, with a last glance at her immodesty.
“White! But no! It is my very worstest color. My skin is white. I shall look”—she tossed up her hands—”bleached.”
“You will look as a young lady should look.”
She frowned and put her hand on his arm to be led to the saloon, where Lady Hadley was impatient to get at her mutton.
“Don’t you look fine as a star, Helena,” she smiled, taking Severn’s other arm and drawing him toward the dining room. To Severn she whispered aside, “But quite inappropriate.”
When they were seated, Helena said, “I must speak to your Queen Charlotte about these white dresses. She is conversable?”
“No, my dear, she ain’t,” Lady Hadley said baldly. “Nothing is more likely to throw old Charlotte into a pelter than any sign of frowardness. But as soon as you nab a fellow, you may wear your pretty colored gowns.”
“Ah, then I can tolerate white for a few weeks,” Helena said, and began spooning up her cream of leek soup. She tasted the bland liquid and frowned at it. “May I have the pepper, please?” she asked, and was handed the pepper. She shook until the surface of her bowl was black, then stirred the pepper in and ate without either complaint or any sign of pleasure.
“I have never had milk soup before,” she said. “It has a light flavor of onion, I think?”
“Leek, actually,” Lady Hadley said.
It was clear to the meanest intelligence that Lady Helena found all the food similarly unappetizing. She flavored it liberally with pepper and any condiment she could get her hands on, but still it all lacked spice. They discussed her trip and affairs in Spain until the dessert appeared. Lady Helena was happy to see a dish of rice, even if it was being served alone and after the meat. She looked in amazement as her hostess added milk and sugar to the dish.
“Oh, Madrina! You cannot mean to eat that!” she exclaimed.
“Lovely rice pudding? Of course I mean to eat it, my dear. What else does one do with it, pray?”
Severn was destroying his rice in the same way. Lady Helena lightly sprinkled hers with salt and found it, like the rest of the meal, nearly inedible. She must get down to the kitchen very soon and teach their cook how to prepare rice. One could survive on rice for weeks, if necessary.
She was not tardy to leave the table when Lady Hadley rose. “We shall leave Severn to his port,” the dame said, and led Helena to the saloon. “Edward retains the male’s privilege of taking his wine after the ladies leave, even when we two dine alone. He will join us in half an hour or so.”
Lady Helena did not think he would wait quite that long to join them. The stiff-faced milord might pretend disapproval of her gown and her manner, but he was interested for all that. She would try to hint Lady Hadley to bed early, so that she might flirt Severn into a more acquiescent mood.
Chapter Three
It was not fifteen minutes before Lord Severn joined the ladies in front of the grate. This was sufficient time to review the situation and find his solution. Since Lady Helena was pretty, he would hint her into the proper English mold and find a match for her. Papa could not blame him if she refused to have him. He would have “done his best” and failed.
“You are fast this evening, Edward,” his mama exclaimed.
“Lady Helena is fagged after her journey. I wished for a few moments of her company before she retired.”
Lady Helena blinked to hear she was expected to be tired at nine-thirty. Her whole aim was to be obliging, however, and she throated a yawn behind her daintily raised hand.
“It was the sea air that made me sleepy,” she said, for she did not want them to get the idea she always retired in the middle of the afternoon.
Lady Hadley spoke a little about the coming Season—the balls and routs, Almack’s and riding, while Severn added several injunctions on propriety.
Helena listened to both with avid interest. “Papa expects me to make a grand match,” she said, trusting Severn did not consider himself to be so grand as she meant. “I understand England has some quaint customs about white gowns and debs not waltzing and such things. You need not fear that I shall disgrace you by any impropriety.”
She turned to Severn and continued, “Actually, this gown you dislike so much, Lord Severn, was my late mama’s. It was impossible to get new gowns made up with Spain at war, so we made do with what was at hand. Calling attention to oneself by odd behavior is considered vulgar in Spain, too.”
Severn smiled his approval. Her mama’s gowns, of course! He ought to have thought of that. “It will be acceptable for you to wear your mama’s gowns when we dine at home, en famille,” he said leniently. “The gown is charming, but not comme il faut for a deb.”
Helena gave him her most demure smile. “I would not want you to think I was fast, milord!”
A bewitching smile the girl had, with little dimples at the corners of her lips, but none in her cheeks. It would be no trouble to find her a parti. “Call me Edward. You are my cousin, after all.”
“Is it proper for me to ask you to call me Helena, Eduardo?” she asked, looking at him from the corner of her black eyes.
Eduardo. Never had his name sounded so romantic, almost daring. “Certainly. I am your cousin, too.”
“We are all cousins, ninnyhammer,” Lady Hadley declared. “Now, what sort of parti do you think Algernon has in his mind, my dear? Did he mention any names?” Severn stiffened.
Helena observed it. Was he going to be jealous and possessive? She must dispel the idea that the match was settled. “No, for he is not at all au courant with the Season’s partis, but he expects me to marry a great man.”
Severn relaxed visibly. Not jealousy, then, she concluded. Was it possible he did not wish to marry her? Even after he had seen her?
Lady Hadley said, “There is young Mondeville. He will be a duke when his papa sticks his fork in the wall.”
“Why wait for that?” Severn asked. “Rutledge is a duke already.” And a good friend, although he would not like a wayward bride. The dashing bucks never did. Helena must be talked up to Rutledge as a model of propriety.
After a little more talk, Helena tried another yawn, hoping to induce sleepiness in her hostess: yawns were supposed to be contagious. But the only result of her efforts was a suggestion from Severn that she should run along to bed, to be prepared for an outing tomorrow.
“Yes, indeed, for I am most eager to see your London.”
She placed a kiss on her godmother’s cheek, curtsied to Severn, and tripped off.
“It will be no trouble shooting her off,” Lady Severn said to her son. “She is pretty as well as sensible. And not blessing herself all the time either, like our Mollie O’Dowd, who helped in the nursery, used to do. Only, of course, Mollie was Irish.”
“Yes, she will do,” Severn allowed. He was now easy in his mind that Mama was unaware of the groom Papa had in mind. And Helena, apparently, had no particular interest in him either. This bee was only in his father’s bonnet.
“A pity you got off on the wrong foot with her by taking her shawl this afternoon, like a butler. First impressions last. She is very well to grass, you must know. The vinery will be hers.”
“And Rutledge is fond of his sherry,” Severn said.
“I was wondering if you
might not make a stab at her, Edward.”
“I?” He laughed merrily. “Even you, Mama, cannot be such a peagoose as to consider me a great man.”
“You could be. Brougham is always after you to be more active in politics.”
“He spoke to me about taking the post of chancellor of the exchequer—in the shadow cabinet, of course,” he added. “He is laboring under the delusion that I share Papa’s wise ways with money.”
“It would please your papa if you would do it.”
Severn considered this notion. Papa would be in a rare pelter when he learned of Helena’s engagement to Rutledge, or someone. Taking a more active part at Whitehall might mitigate his wrath. “I told Brougham I would consider it. I shall talk to him soon.”
“You really should, for if you do not plan to marry soon, you ought to do something other than whore around town with those rackety friends of yours.”
“Language, Mama. Remember, we have a maiden in the house.”
Lady Hadley smiled fondly. “Fancy you giving me a lecture on propriety, Edward. Is it possible you are achieving a sense of responsibility at last?”
“I hope I am not irresponsible!”
“I am sure Papa exaggerates, but if you are going to straighten up, Edward, why not take a shot at Helena? If you think you really have a chance with that Incomparable, naturally I shall do everything in my power to abet you.”
“I trust I could make myself agreeable, if I felt so inclined,” he said, miffed at her doubting his ability to accomplish it on his own. “She is not just my type, however. You know I always preferred blondes, like you, Mama.”
Lady Hadley was easily diverted with this compliment.
Severn drew out his watch and said, “It is still early. I believe I shall go down to my club for a few hands of cards.”
“I shall send Audrey off a note. Perhaps she and Marion would like to go out with Helena tomorrow.”
Severn thought a moment, then said, “No, don’t do it. I shall show our cousin the sights of London, Mama.” Naturally he must make some token attempt to amuse her. His father would demand to know what he was doing. But he would take care to show her a demmed flat time.
