Cousin Cecilia (10 page)

“I doubt you’ll find a good one for that price,” she said, to deflate his pretensions.

“Two guineas then,” he allowed, having no idea what the trinket might cost, but a very good idea that two guineas was a deal more than he cared to spend.

“You will want to give Martha the money,” she said, as his hand remained on the arm of the chair, fiddling endlessly with his quizzing glass. He finally drew out his purse, and Martha hopped up like a servant to get the money. Cecilia longed to bang their heads together. All Martha’s good intentions of making Henley toe the line vanished when she was actually with him.

“I don’t want anything garish, mind,” he told her. “You’d best let Cecilia make the selection.”

Martha looked like a whipped dog. It was too much to be borne. “I doubt my taste would suit you, Mr. Dallan, and in any case I shall be very busy,” Cecilia said. “If you do not trust Martha’s taste, you had best execute the errand yourself.”

He chose to ignore this setdown. “Coming back Thursday, are you?” he asked. The question was directed to Cecilia, who did no more than nod her head.

“At what hour?”

As Cecilia turned to speak to Mrs. Meacham, it was Martha who answered. “We will be home by dinnertime,” she said, thinking he was eager to see her.

“Good. Then I’ll have my new box for Friday night. There’s an Egyptian dancer coming to Jack Duck’s. Famous sport. Wickham saw her in London. She wears practically nothing but gold chains and diaphanous harem pants.”

Martha stuck her finger in her mouth in alarm and looked to her mentor for guidance. “There is no accounting for taste,” Cecilia said, with an incredulous smile at Dallan.

The gentlemen left, after staying barely twenty minutes. Martha went to the bow window to watch the marvelous sight of their rigs driving off at an alleged sixteen miles an hour, which, strangely, did not leave any other carriages in their dust. “That was very nice of them to come to say good-bye,” she said.

Cecilia could only stare. “The next time Mr. Dallan comes to make an errand runner of you, you might let him know the favor is on your side.”

“But he must trust my taste, as he is letting me pick out the box by myself.”

“How can he doubt it, when you’ve chosen him?”

“I never thought of that,” the simple girl said with a smile.

Cecilia had some hopes of a call from Wickham before their departure. There was a matter of a visit to the abbey to be settled. He was seen once in the village, but he didn’t call. In fact, he didn’t stop at all, and Sally Gardener had the bother of flinging on her bonnet for nothing. Tuesday brought no gentleman callers, and Wednesday morning they set out early on their trip.

Once they were on the road, all thoughts were directed forward to London. The Meachams, though living so close, did not go often. When Mr. Meacham was alive, he was too busy on the estate, and after his death it seemed difficult to go without a male escort. They had at least seen St. Paul’s and the Tower of London and such basic tourist spots, but wasted no time there. This being a ladies’ trip, they were not obliged to appear interested in anything but shopping and visiting and enjoying themselves.

The Meachams’ major acquaintance with London shopping was the Pantheon Bazaar. Cecilia directed them away from it to the more elegant establishments, where it was unclear whether it was the luxurious merchandise or the high price that left them speechless. The real reason for the trip was to line up beaux for the next assembly, and to this end they made a few house calls. Cecilia had the good fortune to find her favorite cousin, Sir Nigel Pincombe, at home and had no hesitation to open her budget to him. Besides being cousins, they were also near neighbors in Hampshire and were as close as siblings. During the visit, she got him aside for a private coze.

“What I require is bucks who make a good first impression,” she told him frankly. “It matters not if they are betrothed or ramshackle or their pockets to let, so long as they can put a green light in the eyes of a pair of desultory suitors.”

Sir Nigel shook his head and laughed. “Still up to your old managing tricks, Cecilia. Will I do for one beau?”

She examined him objectively. He was tall, handsome, with dark hair, and a lively nature. “You will do admirably. Two or three more as presentable as yourself is all I require. And by the by,” she added with a sly look, “there is no need to advertise that we are cousins.”

“Ashamed of me, are you?”

“On the contrary, you are so dashing that I may claim you for my own special beau.”

“Now that is a new ploy! Don’t tell me
you
have been hit with Cupid’s arrow!”

“It is not a question of my actually throwing my cap at anyone. It is only that a certain lord is proving—difficult,” she said, choosing her word with care. “I shouldn’t mind letting him know I’m not firmly glued to the shelf.”

He examined her with a disbelieving eye. “Even that is more interest than you have shown before.”

“Well, perhaps he has pricked my pride,” she allowed, and laughed at her own folly.

Nigel’s assistance made further calls unnecessary, and the ladies had time to lavish on the selection of Dallan’s snuffbox. This treat was saved for last. Cecilia’s opinion was sought, and she recommended the ugliest box in the shop. It bore on its lid a nude Venus, with cupids gamboling round. She was sure Dallan would like it excessively. In the evening she took her guests to an inferior comedy at Covent Garden, which they all, including herself, enjoyed immensely.

They made another quick dash to the shops in the morning and left for Laycombe at eleven, reaching home in the early afternoon. Dallan called, as promised, on Thursday evening to pick up his snuff-box. He allowed that it was “a handsome little thing.” He didn’t think to thank Martha for her help in the half hour that he remained. George Wideman didn’t come at all, but he had an excuse. Mrs. Gardener had told them his papa was abed with the flu, and he was kept pretty busy at home.

Wideman did make good his promise to present himself for the rout on Saturday, as did everyone else invited except Lord Wickham. Sally Gardener, having heard that he was invited but not that he declined, had a new jonquil gown made up especially for the occasion. She also came with two feathers stuck into her hair, a pair of fish-scale pearl beads down to her waist, and half a bottle of scent sprinkled over her gaunt body. The room reeked of lavender the whole night, even after Cecilia surreptitiously opened a couple of windows behind the drapes.

High spirits prevailed, especially amongst the younger set who wasted no time in electing a volunteer to play the pianoforte for them while they romped about the room. Henley Dallan danced first with Martha, then, bowing at the waist, requested the pleasure of standing up with Cecilia. She found he did not improve on longer acquaintance. The tone of his conversation was an unpleasant blend of incredible compliments and casualness that their short acquaintance did not warrant.

“It’s not a bad sort of party for a change,” he allowed. “I disliked to have to turn Wickham down. He’s off to Jack Duck’s to see the Egyptian dancer tonight.”

Her ears perked up. “I understood he had company this weekend,” she said.

“Ah!” He gave a knowing laugh. “Just so. I daresay he took his company to Jack Duck’s.”

She already suspected his company was imaginary, but she thought Wickham was at least civil enough not to broadcast his true intentions. And to have tried to lure Dallan, and likely George, too, into deserting the party riled her greatly.

“He asked you to go along with him, did he?” she asked offhandedly.

“We usually go with him” was his noncommittal reply.

“You’re being evasive, Mr. Dallan.”

“I wish you will call me Henley.”

Even this sacrifice was made to get at the truth. “Did he ask you to go with him, Henley?”

“Certainly he asked us,” he said. Not a lie in the least. “I guess you won’t be going to Jack Duck’s this Saturday” was an invitation. What else could you call it?

“I am happy you refused him,” she said, and actually smiled at Henley Dallan. For once, she was happy with him. The words were no sooner out of her mouth than she regretted them.

“How could I go with him, when I knew
you
would be here?” he asked, eyes burning with passion, or some heated emotion. Perhaps it was only pleasure at standing up with a lady so much more stylish than the local girls.

“Of course Martha and I would be here,” she said, pretending to misunderstand.

He wasn’t about to let her off with that stunt. “Oh, she is always here,” he said, in a swaggering way. “We were talking about us.”

There was no longer any getting away from an unpleasant scene. The sooner this idea was dispelled, the better. “There is nothing between us, except that you are my cousin’s special friend,” she said bluntly.

He accepted it better than she hoped. A vastly superior smile, a conspiratorial wink, and an ambiguous, “Just so,” that hinted at future intimacy.

Cecilia could hardly get away from him fast enough after this vexatious interlude. She was in no mood for further harassment when Sally Gardener accosted her between sets.

“A pity Lord Wickham couldn’t be here this evening,” Sally said. For her it was not a total disaster. Though it robbed her of his company, it robbed Miss Cummings of a stellar conquest as well.

“I hope we can contrive to be merry without him.”

“He seemed so particular in his attentions to you, I made sure he would be here.”

“You were mistaken.”

“You must not take it as a personal insult, for we who know him better know that he seldom goes into company, Miss Cummings,” she explained, with a superior smile.

“I would hardly take it personally that he had to decline an invitation to my cousins’ party,” Cecilia pointed out.

“That is odd. Mrs. Meacham never asked him to her routs before.”

“Did she not?” Cecilia said, feigning indifference. Sally continued smiling at her in a gloating manner, thinking she had put her down a peg. Pushed past endurance, she added, “As he loaned me a mare and invited us to view the abbey, she could not well omit him, could she? A pity he had company at home. I hope his absence does not quite destroy the evening for you.”

Sally’s black eyes snapped. She was not subtle, but she was not stupid either and realized she had been told off. “I didn’t hear you had been to the abbey,” she said. Her questioning look suggested it was a lie.

“Even you could not have heard it yet, for the date is still to be arranged. Shall I let you know when the event takes place?”

“If
it takes place,” Sally riposted, and walked away.

Cecilia sat berating herself for this uncustomary rudeness, cursing her temper and Lord Wickham for his duplicity.

The evening was not a total disaster, however. Kate and Alice were making strides with their beaux, and Cecilia managed to keep herself busy with other partners to avoid further doings with Dallan. The one guest who had refused was more on her mind than the couple of dozen who had come. At midnight, a sit-down supper was served in the dining room. Mrs. Meacham said to her, “It’s a pity Wickham could not be here.”

“Don’t fret about it,” Cecilia replied. “There will be a wedding for all that.” She shot a meaningful glance down the table to Alice and George.

Mrs. Meacham smiled in agreement. “That there will. A match you came to make, and a match there will be.”

“Perhaps two,” Cecilia suggested.

Turning, she noticed that Sally Gardener stood directly behind her, with her ears on the stretch. And let us see what you make of that, my girl, she thought to herself. The snatch of conversation was forgotten in an instant by Cecilia, but it found a restless home at the bottom of Sally’s heart, where it festered sorely.

Five miles away at Jack Duck’s Tavern, Lord Wickham sat with a glass before him, staring into its depth with unseeing eyes. Across the room a girl—Irish he thought, with her skin tinted brown—performed an ungainly imitation of an Egyptian belly dance to some discordant tune. He was ineffably sad for her, and for himself, and for Peg, the woman who sat at his elbow, trying to cheer him up. He was generally amused by Peg. Her rough speech revealed a sharp good humor and a lively wit. Tonight he wished her at Jericho. He was only half listening to her story about some swell from the city who was trying to lure her away. His eyes flickered from group to group, all of them ramshackle people.

They were mostly young bucks, thinking themselves daring to be in this den of iniquity, drinking blue ruin and gambling more than they could afford. And the older ones were worse; at least the youngsters would grow out of it. A pair of aging gents sat across from him, men in their forties, drinking noisy toasts to a pair of trollops young enough to be their daughters. People with nothing to do—like himself. He could have gone to Mrs. Meacham’s rout. At least the company would have been respectable, if dull.

“So I says to him—are you listening at all, Wickham?” He nodded to Peg. “I says to him, ‘What kind of a girl do you think I am?’ And he says, ‘You’re not a girl.’ I made sure he was giving me a dig at my age, but no, he goes on to say, ‘I hope I know a lady when I see one.’ A fine gent he was, but married, of course. You can always spot the married ones. They have a guilty look about them, coming to a place like this. Like boys running away from school. Take you now, you’d never mistake you for a married man.”

“Would you not, Peg? I was married, you know.”

“Was you really, Wickham? I never knew it. Have you got any kiddies?”

“No.”

“You wife’s dead, is she?”

“Yes.”

“I wager she was a grand lady. What was she like?”

“Pretty.”

“It’s too bad she went and died on you.” She lifted her glass and drank. “You must be thinking about her tonight. You look sad. You need a drink, Wickham. Drink up, the night’s young.”

“But I’m not.” Till that point, he had not been thinking about his wife, but Peg’s words called up her image. “What was she like?” She was tall, blonde, with a face like a Grecian statue, and about as much life. He had been a fool to marry her for her beauty, but not the first young fool to make that error. Really it wasn’t fair to say she had no life; that cold reserve had broken down once she met her banker, Mr. Gregory. His image was sharply etched in Wickham’s brain as well. A handsome rattle, with a second-rate character and no mind worth the name.