A Christmas Gambol (11 page)

He was on edge all that morning, without quite knowing why. Gresham was a bumptious bore, but he was not a lecher after all. At the midmorning break, the party whip drew Montaigne aside and said, “Whatever is ailing you, I suggest you attend to it, then return to the House and perform your duties properly. Brougham expected you to speak against Eldon’s bill. You left him with only Danville to refute those ridiculous statistics.”

Such an impertinence would normally have received a sharp rebuke from Montaigne, but on this occasion, he knew he was at fault. “It was only the first reading. I shall deliver my attack in good time,” he replied.

He took the whip’s advice and left early to visit Berkeley Square. Sissie had not yet returned from her outing, but Meg and Fairly were at home, sitting on the sofa, holding hands. This display of conjugal affection was not entirely a new thing. The Fairly marriage was one of extremes; they tended to swing from billing and cooing to shouting and throwing the crockery at each other.

“You are the first person we have allowed in to see us all morning,” Meg announced. “We have had to turn a dozen callers from the door, because of Fairly’s condition.”

“Not coming down with the flu, I hope?” Montaigne inquired.

“Ninnyhammer,” Meg said. “It is his sprained elbow, from fighting off that vicious band of brigands yesterday at Seven Dials.”

“I thought it was his nose.”

“That, too. Have you prepared his speech for the House?”

“I didn’t agree to write it!” Montaigne said testily. “Merely to give some advice.”

The idea of Fairly’s actually wasting an afternoon in Parliament was beginning to lose its luster.

Meg said, “You should have seen us at Lady Amelia’s rout last night, Monty. The whole world was attending on us. I swear the hostess could scarcely make up two sets for the cotillion. Mr. Weber thinks it ought to be written up as a play. We are trying to decide whether to attend Covent Garden this evening, or Lady Radcliffe’s rout.”

“If Fairly cannot dance, then surely the play—”

“But could anyone see the sling when we are just sitting in a box? Of course he would rest his arm on the ledge, but it is rather dark.”

“Ah, then in that case, the rout would be better medicine. I plan to take Sissie to Radcliffe’s.”

“She didn’t say so,” Meg said.

“Did she not get my note before she left?” he asked. Meg didn’t know. “I plan to ask her, at any rate. That’s why I am here.”

He poured himself a glass of wine and tried to make sensible conversation with the Fairlys. The quarter of an hour until Sissie’s return seemed endless. He felt that a morning of Gresham’s prosing pomposity might be enough to show Sissie the man was a consummate bore. But when she finally arrived, her eyes were shining. Her whole face seemed lit up from within.

“You will never guess what!” she exclaimed, even before saying good day. For one absurd moment, Montaigne felt she had had an offer. “I am going to write a skit for the Christmas pantomime at Covent Garden!” she continued. “Did you ever hear of anything so marvelous? Sir Giles introduced me to a Mr. Palin, who is in charge of it. He—Mr. Palin— was lamenting the lack of some light entr’acte filler, and Sir Giles said that I had a light touch and a great facility for words.”

“I thought a pantomime didn’t have words,” Fairly said.

“It didn’t used to have, but it’s grown into a sort of fairy tale, with singing and dancing and jokes,” Cicely explained. “The role of the principal boy is always played by a woman, and the dame by a man, to add to the humor, you see.”

“By Jove, that sounds good! I do like a masquerade.” Fairly smiled.

“How will you write it in time for Christmas?” Montaigne demanded. “The actors will have to rehearse.”

“It’s only a short skit,” Sissie told him. “I can write it in a day or two. I have dozens of ideas.”

Montaigne felt that as it was
Chaos
that had given Sissie the credentials for the job, it should be himself who wrote it, but with Fairly in the room, he couldn’t say so. He attacked on a different front.

“You’ll send the work from Elmdale, will you? That might be awkward. They’re bound to want changes. They always do.”

“Silly!” Meg said. “She will stay here.”

Cicely looked her gratitude. “Would I be a terrible nuisance, Meg? I could ask Anne to come. We would put up at a cheap hotel. It would only be for a few days. I daresay Anne would enjoy it.”

“What of your papa?” Montaigne asked, though he felt a twinge of pity at that “cheap hotel.” “Anne never likes to leave him alone.”

“It’s not as though he were ill. For a special occasion like this, he wouldn’t mind.”

“Rubbish! You’re staying here,” Fairly insisted.

Montaigne felt a deep-seated aversion to the scheme. Russel Palin was a well-known womanizer. He felt in his bones it was Sissie’s looks, not her (or his own) talent that had won her the commission. How could he look after her if she was hobnobbing about Covent Garden with rakes and actors?

“What had Gresham to say about it?” he asked, sensing that that pretentious bore would despise the scheme.

“He was delighted for me. Oh, and he has agreed to read
Georgiana.
I gave him my copy.” The Fairlys looked at her in confusion. “That is the title of my book. I told you about it, Montaigne.”

“I thought it was called
Chaos Is Here,”
Fairly said, frowning.

“No, no, not that horrid thing,” Sissie said. “It is another book I have written.”

“Another? By Jove, you are a caution, Sissie. Dashed off another already, eh? And a pantomime as well. Grind ‘em out like sausages. Sit down and tell us all about it. We are bored to flinders.”

Meg sensed her
esposo
was becoming irritable with the lack of company and took her decision. “You must have a good lie-down to prepare for the rout this evening, Fairly. I shall ask Coddle to bring us up a bottle of wine.”

“Then it is to be the rout?” he asked, brightening.

“No one would see us at the theater. You must tell me what gown to wear.” She rose and tenderly assisted her husband to his feet. With Meg’s arm around his waist, he hobbled off.

Montaigne poured Cicely a glass of wine. When he handed it to her, he sat beside her. “So Gresham has condescended to have a look at your book, eh?”

“Not just to read it, but to analyze it and tell me how to improve it. It is very kind of him, for he is excessively busy with his work on the
Edinburgh Review.”

Montaigne gritted his teeth and continued civilly. “How did you enjoy your drive through the fleshpots of London? I trust Gresham didn’t steal my thunder and take you to visit the shops?”

A small frown creased her brow. “We didn’t even drive by the fleshpots. Sir Giles had to pick up some books at Hatchard’s. We spent the morning there, where we met Mr. Palin. It was excessively interesting. Sir Giles has recommended dozens of books I ought to read. I have written them down.”

“With a translation of the classics into English heading the list. Then you will be writing your papa to tell him you have been invited to stay a little longer. It has occurred to me that you should attend a few fashionable parties as well—for your research.”

Her eyes glowed with pleasure. “I should like it of all things. I feared that with Fairly malingering I would hardly get my nose out the door, but it seems they are attending a rout this evening. Do you think they mean to take me along?”

“I doubt it has so much as crossed their collective minds that they have a guest in the house. I wrote you a note asking you to go to Lady Radcliffe’s rout this evening with me.”

A look of pleasure and surprise beamed out. “Really? I must have left before it came. Thank you, Montaigne. I should love to go. I shall feel guilty, knowing Sir Giles is spending his evening reading my novel while I dance the night away.”

“I hoped he would be writing his review of
Chaos”
Montaigne said, his lips thinning in annoyance at her harping on Gresham.

“He has already done that. He speaks well of the book. He has given me a rough copy. Would you like to see it?” She drew a crumpled page from her reticule and handed it to him.

He took it eagerly. As his eyes scanned the page, his first smile dwindled to dissatisfaction. Such condescending phrases as “a more than acceptable effort from a young girl” and “a facility for phrasing that saves a trite plot from ennui” were hardly flattering.

“I wonder what you would consider a bad review,” he said when he had finished.

“Considering the nature of the novel, it is not at all bad. He takes only one stab at the violet eyes, you see. ‘A little unnecessary reliance on physical appearance.’ I am sure his attack would have been more venomous if I had not turned him up sweet.”

Again Montaigne felt that burning sensation in his chest. “May one ask how you accomplished that—in plain daylight, in Hatchard’s bookshop? Dumped the butter boat on him, eh?”

“The review was written last night, actually.” She gave Montaigne a saucy look and added, “If I had had another visit to work on him, no doubt he would have proclaimed the book a marvel.”

“You sound remarkably confident of your charms.”

“And you, sir, sound remarkably peevish, considering that I am doing you a favor, not vice versa. You didn’t even congratulate me on getting the assignment to write the pantomime but only started hinting in that odious way that I was overstaying my welcome.”

Montaigne realized he was in the wrong and felt churlish for his behavior. “If I forgot to congratulate you, I am sorry.”

“You did. I thought you would be happy for me. Sir Giles was thrilled to death. He thinks that with work and guidance, I could be the next Frances Burney,” she said, smiling shyly.

It was that smile that goaded Montaigne into an angry outburst. “The guiding hand is to be Sir Giles’s, I daresay? Mind he doesn’t guide you into oblivion. He has been trying to peddle his own novel for two years. A great, thundering bore of a book. No doubt that is why he went to that do last night, to ingratiate Murray.”

“How can you be so horrid, Montaigne?” she charged. Unshed tears sprang to her eyes. Embarrassed, she brushed them away with the back of her hand, like a child. “He has been excessively kind to me. What chance would I ever have had to write for Covent Garden were it not for his introducing me to Mr. Palin?”

“I wager it was your
beaux yeux
that got you the commission, not Gresham’s clout. Your looks and my book—the book I asked you to pose as the author of,” he added hastily. Sissie was upset and didn’t notice the slip.

“I daresay
Chaos
had something to do with it,” she allowed. “In fact, Mr. Palin said as much, but I know I can do it. It will be good advertising for my own book, when it comes out.
If
it comes out, I mean. If Sir Giles likes it.”

“It is not Sir Giles you have to please! I told Murray I’d send him the book today. When is Gresham to return it?”

“When he finishes reading it. He’s very busy.”

“Busy poking his nose in where it isn’t wanted. And on top of it all, you’re
using
him.”

“You were happy enough when I used him to give
Chaos
a good review! Why shouldn’t I use his influence to help myself as well as your Aunt Ethel? And I’m not using him. We are friends. Friends are happy to help each other—as I am helping you by being here.”

Montaigne opened his mouth to continue arguing but could suddenly find nothing to say. He had encouraged her to make use of Gresham to puff off
Chaos.
Sissie was doing him a favor, and she was a friend. He should be happy for her. Why did he feel this aching worry to think of her working for Palin?

“Palin is a notorious womanizer,” he said. “You want to watch yourself with him.”

She looked at him with a question in her eyes. “Is that what’s worrying you, Montaigne? As if he’d bother with me when he is surrounded by beautiful actresses all day. I shan’t be seeing much of Palin, in any case. He’s one of the managers, but he only chooses the author. It is the director I will be working with. A Mr. Moore, who, Sir Giles tells me, is an elderly gentleman.”

“If Gresham called him elderly, he must be ancient. Just keep your distance from Palin,” he said.

She glared but refused to rise to the bait. “Are you staying for lunch?” she asked.

“No, I just dropped in early to let you know about Lady Radcliffe’s rout party. I didn’t want Gresham to get in before me.” As he studied her, a soft, bright smile lit his eyes. “Sorry if I’ve behaved like a brute. It has been a rather difficult morning at the House. I shouldn’t have said those things about Gresham.”

“I’m sure his book is thrilling.”

“Oh, no, it’s a dead loss. Murray has read it. I meant the remarks about his age. Personal comments are never in good taste. The poor blighter can’t help it if he came off the ark.”

“Before you betray your lack of breeding by any more slights on my
friend,
I shall relieve you of the fear you might meet him this evening by informing you he’s to attend a lecture.” She rose and gave him her hand. “Thank you for taking me to the rout, Montaigne. It will be very useful material.”

“You might even enjoy yourself,” he suggested.

“Yes indeed. There is nothing I enjoy so much as working. And this afternoon I shall be spying out the secrets of Bond Street. Papa gave me fifty pounds, and Anne and I between us scraped together another fifty, so my pockets are deep. I may even buy myself something.”

This speech sounded so pathetic that Montaigne felt like an ogre for having ripped up at her. This trip to London was Sissie’s higher education, her university. He was suddenly happy for her that it had been prolonged.

“I shall call for you at three,” he said and took his leave, feeling somewhat reassured. Sissie was seeing Gresham only to help with her writing. “Working” she called it. No harm in that. Montaigne was being a dog in the manger, trying to deprive her of her opportunity. He’d point out all the Incomparables to her at the rout and introduce her to the more amusing rakes and rattles. No chance of that mawworm Gresham being at Lady Radcliffe’s, at least.