by Mira Stables
This change of plan cast a deep glow over the schoolroom. Neither coaxing nor teasing nor the promise of a truly magnificent Christmas gift when he returned could bring back the smiles to Mary’s woebegone little face, though she did brighten a little at his promise of an early return and his reminder that at least, this year, she would have Lissa to keep her company. “But it won’t be the same if you’re not here,” she said sadly. “And we had planned all sorts of surprises for you.”
“And I refuse to be cheated out of them,” said her brother. “Promise you’ll save them all for when I come back and we’ll keep our own holiday then.”
Christmas did however bring them a new acquaintance, one whom both girls and governess found attractive and entertaining. Mrs. Wayburn’s lodger accompanied her hostess to church on Christmas Day, to the surprise of those who had automatically assumed her to be of the Roman Catholic persuasion, and it was natural for the two parties to walk home together. Miss Parminter’s relations with her two charges had mellowed considerably of late and she was sincerely sorry for them in their disappointment over his lordship’s absence, so she raised no objection when Nanty invited them to step inside for a few moments and taste her home-brewed mead and her mince pies. Since the Comtesse was also invited to share this seasonable hospitality the three older ladies chatted in friendly fashion while Lissa begged permission to show Lady Mary the tiny attic room that was still “hers” and the childish treasures that Nanty guarded for her. Presently Nanty excused herself to attend to the progress of dinner which had been left to its own devices while they were at church.
The Comtesse de Valmeuse had been famed for her social address even at a court that was renowned for its polished courtesy. She found no difficulty in providing a flow of polite small talk. But her gentle commonplaces were met with an interest that they scarcely merited and she realised that here was a shy and lonely woman, eager for colour and warmth and friendship. Deliberately she set herself to draw out the cramped butterfly spirit which she believed to exist in any feminine breast, however unpromising the exterior. Before long the unlikely pair had discovered several mutual interests and prejudices and were deep in talk when Nanty came back flushed and apologetic for her long absence. The sliding “cheek” which controlled the heat of the oven had jammed and she had been struggling to release it. However all was well and the beef was not scorched but dinner would be slightly delayed.
Upon hearing this Madame de Valmeuse said that she would walk a little way with her new acquaintance. Mrs. Wayburn was intrigued to hear her add, “And I will look out my sketch book and bring it with me on Thursday,” as she turned to her hostess and said pleasantly, with scarcely a trace of foreign accent, “Miss Parminter assures me that you will consent to act as my guide to the Place on that occasion as you will be making your weekly visit and she has very kindly invited me to take tea with her.”
The newborn friendship flourished, until there were few days when “Madame,” as she preferred to be called, did not make her way up to the Place at some time of the day, either to talk to the girls in French or Italian, or to supervise their painting, for Miss Parminter had found her to be an extremely talented artist. She herself, though well-taught was quite devoid of talent and was delighted that her pupils should have the advantage of seeing such beautiful work. She did demur at having Madame take over tasks that were rightly hers but was laughed to scorn by that lady who declared that she would soon have been moped to death if it had not been for the pleasant society that she found at the Place. So schoolroom life went on very comfortably though it lacked the gaiety that the Viscount had brought to it.
That gentleman was, indeed, much more moped and bored than the cosy quartet at Stapleford. To Wrelf itself he was devoted. But it was the country way of life that he loved, and he saw his home neither as a decorative background for spoilt society beauties nor as a select club for gamesters and dandies. And that, in his present disgruntled frame of mind, was how he felt his grandfather’s guests used it. Who wanted to lie in bed till noon when the moors were crisp with frost and there were birds a-plenty and only a week or two of the season left? Or spend the evenings in insipid exchanges with debutantes who knew no better than to agree with everything one said? A few months out of Town, he discovered, and half the conversation was unintelligible. He did not know the latest crim. cons. nor care who had fathered the Betterston twins. Even the hints of political intrigue aimed at bringing down Pitt sounded like backstairs gossip, unworthy of serious consideration. The ladies found him poor company. His grandfather, though the pair were good friends again, was sadly disappointed because he had not fallen a victim to one of the delectable trio of fillies whom he had specially selected for his grandson to look over. It was full time that the boy got over his foolish fancy for Millicent Girling and since that enchantress had been the darkest of brunettes the Marquis had congratulated himself on choosing two blondes and a chestnut, all of impeccable pedigree and all nicely broken to bridle, as he phrased it to himself. Jervase was perfectly charming to all of them, but not even Sylvia Dysart’s ethereal fairness and the pretty little lisp that Society had pronounced to be so attractive that its owner now practised it assiduously in private as well as in public, had succeeded in earning her any distinguishing attentions from the impervious Viscount. Had the Marquis but known it, his grandson considered that the lady stood in dire need of lessons in speaking without ridiculous affectation, though he felt no inclination to attend to the matter himself. As for Lady Genevra’s much admired auburn locks, he thought they probably owed a good deal to the skilled use of the dye pot since she certainly had not the temperament to go with them. They compared very unfavourably with some red-gold curls with which he was well acquainted and in comparing the two and remembering how Lissa Wayburn’s hair shone guinea gold at her brow and temples his lordship suffered such a pang of homesickness for Stapleford that he suggested to his grandfather that he should take his departure with the rest of the house party.
The Marquis would not hear of it. With the house so full of people there had been no opportunity for a comfortable talk with the boy. He wanted to hear how he went on at Stapleford and what he planned to do, now that the way seemed reasonably clear for his return to Town. When the guests were gone they would have opportunity to discuss such topics at length. The Viscount could think of nothing that he would like less. Uneasily aware that the less his grandfather knew about certain of his doings at Stapleford, especially those that concerned his old friend, Mrs. Wetherley, the better it would be for their newly restored amity, and finding that he regarded the prospect of an early return to Town with inexplicable distaste, he evaded as best he could and renewed his suggestion of an early departure, pointing out that once February was in there would be little to do at Wrelf.
“Does not Stapleford suffer from the same disadvantages, then?” enquired the Marquis dryly. “I begin to suspect that it must hold some hidden attraction.”
He knew from the letters of friends that the boy had shut himself away for weeks but of late had seemed to be emerging from his self-imposed seclusion. That was perfectly natural. His comment had been the merest jest. But when Stapleford coloured up and denied the idle imputation with quite unnecessary heat he began to think there might be something in it.
“You protest too much, my boy,” he grinned. “Never tell me that Galahad has found himself a rustic charmer after all!”
But Jervase had recovered from the accidental hit. “Rating me too high, Sir,” he said lazily, returning the grin. “I was never a Galahad. Good-looking sort of cove, wasn’t he? All the ladies after him? Bit of a slow-top though. Brought up by nuns, if my memory serves me. Accounts for it. Couldn’t expect a lot of spinsters, however holy, to understand bringing up a boy. I did find myself a pretty little charmer, though. Her name is Mary and she will be fifteen next month. What’s more I found her in much the same sad case as poor old Galahad, for that governess you selected for her is as near to being a n
un as makes no odds.”
The amusement vanished from his grandfather’s face to be replaced by a scowl. “What sort of a female do you expect a governess to be?” he demanded, instantly resenting the first breath of criticism. “Would you have me employ one who was not of the highest respectability to instruct your sister?” And then, with dawning interest, “So Mary’s growing into a beauty, is she? Scarce surprising. Your mother was the toast of the Town. Is she better in health? I think of her still as a puny sickly brat. But close on fifteen! I must soon began to look about for a good match for her.”
Jervase hastened to correct these impressions. “No, Sir, not a beauty, though she has considerable charm and is neither puny nor sickly. Nor is she anywhere near marriage ripe. I thought she was being kept too close to her books and I know you have no liking for scholarly women so I made a few changes. I’ve been teaching her to ride and have engaged a caper merchant to instruct her in the elegancies of the dance. And I have found a companion for her, a child of her own age to share her lessons and encourage her in a little harmless mischief. I promise you, Sir, the change in my meek little mouse of a sister is a vast improvement.”
The Marquis grunted sourly, not sure that he approved this flagrant interference with the arrangements that were his province but unable to find grounds for complaint in the boy’s kindly interest in his sister’s welfare. Then he pounced on the weak spot.
“Who’s this companion wench?” he demanded suspiciously. “Why did you bring in a stranger? Why not one of the Goldsborough brats if companionship was needed?”
“Lissa Wayburn, Sir?” said Jervase smoothly, though with a silent prayer for inspiration which he addressed rather to the Reverend Michael Hetherston than to the Almighty. “I doubt if you are acquainted with Mrs. Wayburn. She is not one of our tenants. Widow of a naval man. Straitened means, I imagine—ekes out a living with her needle. The Vicar had interested himself in the child and taken her education in hand, but she was too much with the village children and was growing slovenly in her speech. It seemed to me a good scheme, though I confess I might have thought of the Goldsborough cousins. Mrs. Wayburn feels herself much obliged to us, Mary likes the girl and Miss Parminter, who was doubtful at the outset, is now wholly in agreement.”
And that last statement, at least, was a whole truth, he thought thankfully, with a sudden determination that once he was clear of the present entanglement he would, in future, shun prevarication as he would the devil. It might be amusing when you used it to fool a shrew like Mrs. Wetherley, but it was mean and despicable to use his grandfather so. Tyrant and tartar he might be, but he had always shown great kindness to his grandson. Yet what else could he do, since it was not his own comfort that was at stake but a girl’s reputation. Let the Marquis but set eyes on Lissa and there was only one interpretation that he would put upon the circumstances.
The Marquis grunted, only half satisfied by the explanation, admonishing his heir that it would not do to let his revolutionary notions cause him to cherish any stray brat that touched his pity, and enquired more particularly into the rank and career of the late Mr. Wayburn. Jervase was thankful that he could truthfully plead ignorance. He then submitted meekly to a sharp tongue lashing for having neglected to discover these important details before permitting the girl to associate with his sister. The interview left him feeling so shamefully guilty that he found it quite impossible to refuse his grandfather’s request that he should stay on at Wrelf until the Marquis’s own return to Town so that they might travel together.
Thus it was that February was already a week old when he rode into the stable yard at the Place, quite unheralded, at close upon nine o’clock one night. He had meant to lie at Salisbury, but the combination of dry weather, a bright moon and the proximity of home was too tempting. He instructed Tom to bring on the chaise and the baggage next day, hired a tidy hack and pushed on without waiting for dinner.
At that hour of the night the house was almost entirely in darkness. Most of the servants would be already abed. A startled footman admitted him and went to take order for his master’s reception. The Viscount, having noted that one of the few lights that broke the dark frontage came from Miss Parminter’s sitting-room, decided that he would drop in on the lady to ascertain that all had gone well during his absence and took the stairs two at a time to tap politely on her door. A rather surprised voice bidding him enter, he opened the door on an unexpected scene.
There were three people in the room instead of the one he had thought to see. Miss Parminter had risen from her chair by the fire and was expressing her surprise and gratification at seeing him. He scarcely heard her. Standing with her back to him, working intently on a painting that stood on an easel, was a stranger, a woman dressed in black, who did not even look up until Miss Parminter greeted him by name. Then she turned to gaze at him, the brush suspended in her hand, her expression cool and critical, her poise untouched by his sudden irruption into the quiet room. Beyond recording the fact that she was a stranger he paid little heed to her, either. All his attention was for Lissa; Lissa, who should have been in bed this half-hour past; a Lissa who was almost a stranger, wearing a close fitting green velvet riding dress and a beaver hat with sweeping plumes in the fashion of yester year, a riding crop in her gloved hand.
For a moment he did not grasp the simple and obvious explanation that the stranger was painting Lissa’s portrait. He simply wondered, rather stupidly, why she was so oddly dressed at this hour of the night. Then she abandoned her pose, ran across the room to greet him and sank into a deep graceful curtsey, her face joyful, her eyes glowing with a light that was frankly adoring.
Miss Parminter made a mental note to remind her pupil that so profound a reverence was not appropriate to his lordship’s rank, but did not see the rapt look on her face. Nor did Madame, whose attention was for the newcomer.
She saw him check suddenly, as one who had received a shock. For a brief moment it was difficult to read his expression. Then he was smiling at Lissa and bowing deeply in return for her greeting, giving his hand to help her rise and conducting her with some ceremony to the chair on which her free hand had been posed when he interrupted the sitting. He then suggested, with a teasing twinkle, that it was rather unusual to perform a court curtsey with a whip in one’s hand and left the recipient in some doubt as to one’s ultimate intentions. Lissa laughed at that one, assured him that he stood in no immediate danger, and demanded to know if her curtsey had improved.
“Importunate brat,” said his lordship. “My praise is not so lightly bestowed. Riding dress, however fine,” and he studied it through his glass with some attention, “is not the proper attire for it. We shall see how you perform in full fig. There must be plenty of ancient finery laid away in the attic to furnish you with a practice dress. Meanwhile you are forgetting more immediate matters. You have not presented me to your guest.”
Lissa blushed and apologised, but quite without that air of painful humiliation which had acknowledged her earlier social ineptitudes. “Madame will forgive me,” she said gaily. “She knows how much we have all missed you and will understand that every other thought was forgotten when I saw you so unexpectedly returned,” and performed the necessary courtesies with easy grace, adding that Madame La Comtesse had coaxed Miss Parminter to allow her to stay up a little longer than usual in order that she might use her as a model, and that the lovely riding dress was Madame’s own, that she had worn as a girl, and was it not much prettier than the modern fashions?
Miss Parminter, who had watched this interlude with an indulgent eye agreed that this was true, but perhaps Lissa had better run along to bed now that the sitting was done and that she was on no account to wake Mary, who would not sleep another wink if she heard that her brother was returned. Lissa went off without demur and the Viscount was interested to see that she bestowed a good night kiss upon her friends as she bade them good night. He himself was awarded only a mischievous parody of a curtsey, a wobbling, a
wkward bob, eyes and mouth wide open, finger to mouth and a wicked dimple lurking. He acknowledged it appropriately with a haughty sneer and a curl of the lip that should have set her quite beneath his notice but which only evoked a deep gurgle of merriment. Things had certainly changed in his household during his absence.
With Lissa gone it was possible to converse seriously. Miss Parminter told him briefly of the Comtesse’s situation and of how they had chanced to become acquainted. She spoke of her obligation to the lady for her friendship and for her help with the girls. His lordship, who had assessed the lady’s quality at a glance once his attention was no longer absorbed by Lissa, expressed his gratitude with patent sincerity and added that he found Lissa improved out of recognition. Both ladies looked pleased. “She has tried so hard,” said Miss Parminter. “She has breeding,” amended the Comtesse. “She knows instinctively what is sound and what is cheap and tawdry.”
