Frederica (33 page)

Nothing, therefore, could have been more unexceptionable than his lordship’s opera-party; and nothing could have been more exactly ‘calculated to convince even the most suspicious that he was merely doing a guardian’s duty than his lordship’s polite but rather bored demeanour. It was a simple matter for him to engage Frederica in conversation during the interval without attracting attention: he had merely to retire with her to the back of the box, to make room for those of Charis’s admirers who ventured to present themselves. He had said: “I hope you are pleased with me; I shall think myself very ill-used if I don’t receive a fervent expression of your gratitude!”

Only for an instant did she look puzzled; as he watched the laughter spring to her eyes he reflected that she had never yet daunted him by asking, fatally: “What do you
mean
?”
She had said instead: “Indeed, I am very much obliged to you, sir! I only wish—” She paused, sighed, and said: “Don’t you think—now that you have had the opportunity to observe him more closely—that he would be the very man for her?” He glanced at the unconscious Mr Navenby. “Perhaps: how can I tell? Is that what troubles you?”

“No, it doesn’t trouble me, precisely. I am only anxious that she should be comfortably, and happily, established.”

“Then what is it?” he asked.

“Why, nothing! Except that I shall be obliged to turn off the cook, which is a great bore, because she cooks well. But my housekeeper tells me that she is so much addicted to gin that she must go. Can you wonder at it if I appear a trifle harassed?—Though I hoped I did not!”

“Oh, don’t be alarmed! I daresay no one who wasn’t well-acquainted with you would notice the least change in you, and might even be fobbed off with this Canterbury tale about your cook.”

“It isn’t a Canterbury tale!” she said indignantly. “Very well, but the cook hasn’t cut up your serenity, Frederica. Tell me, are you afraid, as Jessamy appears to be, that you will all be brought to a standstill because Harry has bought himself a stylish curricle and pair?”

“Good God, no! I own, I wish he hadn’t done so, for I don’t think he has the least notion of what it will cost him to maintain his own carriage in London, but I promise you it hasn’t
cut up my serenity,
as you call it! Did Jessamy tell you about it? I wish you will tell him that it is not for him to lecture Harry how he should go on!”

“Oh, I’ve already done so!” he replied.

“Thank you!” she said, with a look of gratitude. “He pays much more heed to you than to anyone else, so I shall indulge myself with the hope that when next he sees Harry he won’t look quite so disapprovingly at him!”

His brows rose. “When next he sees him? Is Harry away, then?”

“Why, yes—just for a day or two! I am not perfectly sure, but I believe—that is, I know he has gone off on an expedition with some friends,” she replied lightly.

“So that’s it!” he said, smiling.

“Indeed it isn’t! How can you be so absurd?”

“Shall I accept that rebuke with a civil bow, or would you prefer me to reassure you?” His smile grew, as her eyes lifted involuntarily to his face in a questioning look. “You are a very good sister, and you don’t in the least object to Harry’s going off with his friends, but you are afraid that he may have got into bad company, are you not? Well, you may be easy on that head: I’m not personally acquainted with young Peplow, but, according to what I hear, he’s not one of what we call the peep-of-day boys. I have little doubt that he and Harry will cut up a number of extremely foolish larks, but that need not concern you: such antics are to be expected of halflings.” He paused, hesitating for a moment before he said: “When I first met you, Frederica, you spoke to me of your father with a frankness which makes it possible for me to tell you that I believe that you have very little need to dread that Harry may follow in his footsteps. I perceive the resemblance between them, but I can also perceive certain differences, the chief being that Harry seems to have no taste for gaming. Does that reassure you?”

She nodded, and replied in a low tone: “Yes—thank you! I own, that—that possibility has been in my mind, though I can’t tell how you should have guessed it.” She smiled at him, in her frank way, saying simply: “You are very good, and I’m truly grateful—in particular for your kindness to my brothers. I don’t know why you should interest yourself in Harry—who can’t even make a
false
claim to be your ward!—but I do thank you for it!”

He could have told her why he had made it his business to interest himself in Harry, but he had not done so, shying away from what would have come perilously near to the declaration he was determined not to make. She was a darling, but he had no intention of committing himself, and not for the world would he cause her to suffer the least twinge of mortification. Or so he had thought. It was not until later, when he searched his own mind, that he realized that there had been another reason for his abstention: he had been afraid of losing her altogether. He remembered that he had kissed her hand once, and that even that small sign of regard had made her withdraw from him a little. He had retrieved his position almost immediately; but in the resumption of cordial relations there had never been, on her side, any hint that she wanted anything but friendship from him.

This was a new experience. So many traps had been set for him, so many handkerchiefs thrown to him, that it had not previously occurred to him that his suit might not be acceptable to any lady whom he chose to honour with a proposal. But Frederica was not on the catch for him; he was very sure that she would not marry him, or any other man, for the sake of rank or wealth; he was far from sure that she liked him well enough for his own sake to accept an offer from him. Salutary! he thought, with a wry smile; and suddenly wondered whether the ease with which he had captivated Julia Parracombe, the dashing Mrs Ilford, and a score of others, had turned him into a contemptible coxcomb, who believed himself to be irresistible.

He was still, several days later, trying to discover the true state of his own mind, and Frederica’s, when he returned to his house at dusk one evening to find the hall littered with portmanteaux and band-boxes, the two footmen halfway up the stairs, carrying a corded trunk, and his butler wearing an expression of fatherly benevolence.

“What the
devil
—?” he demanded.

“It’s my Lady Elizabeth, my lord,” explained Wick-en, relieving him of his hat and gloves. “Quite like old times it seems! She arrived not twenty minutes ago.”

“Oh, did she?” said his lordship, somewhat grimly.

The Lady Elizabeth—that Poor Eliza, who had married a mere Mr Kentmere—emerged from the library at this moment, still habited in her travelling-dress, and said, with great affability: “Yes, dear Vernon: she did! But you mustn’t fall into raptures! It’s not at all the thing. Besides, I
know
how delighted you must be!”

She strolled forward as she spoke, a tall, rather lanky woman, the nearest to the Marquis in age of his sisters, and the most like him in countenance, but with more liveliness, and less grace than he possessed. “What an elegant rig!” she remarked, laughing at him. “Everything prime about you!”

“I wish I might return the compliment!” he retorted, lightly kissing her proffered cheek. “What a quiz of a hat! You look like a dowdy, Eliza! What has brought you to London?”

“My quiz of a hat, of course. I must—I positively
must
buy a new one!” She added, in languishing accents: “If only I could afford to buy a new dress as well—my dear, dear brother!”

Since the only thing that had made the mere Mr Kentmere in any way acceptable to her parents had been his extremely handsome fortune, the Marquis was not deceived. Pushing her into the library, he said, shutting the door: “Try for a little conduct, Eliza!”

She laughed, “As though Wicken didn’t know all there is to be known about us! How
is
our dear sister Louisa, by the way?”

“I’ve been spared the sight—and sound—of her for over a week.” He scanned her, his eyes narrowed. “Setting aside the hat, what
has
brought you to London?” “You can’t set aside hats,” she objected. “I must have a new crop, too, and bring myself back into the established mode. However, the thing that really made me come was your own complaint: boredom, my dear!”

“What, tired of rural tranquillity?”

“If,” she said severely, “you ever took the smallest interest in your nephews and nieces, you would not talk to me of tranquillity! We began the year with whooping-cough; three of them had that, one after the other. Hardly had the last whoop died away, than what must Caroline do—at her age, too!—than start in the chicken-pox and communicate it to Tom and Mary! And then Jack brought home some horrid infection from Eton, and they
all
succumbed to it, even John! I wish I had done so myself, for it would have been much less exhausting! I remained at the Manor, like the devoted wife and mother I am, until they had recovered, and then packed my trunks before any of them had had time to throw out a rash, complain of a sore throat, or break a limb!”

He smiled, but his steady gaze remained on her face. “And for how long do you propose to remain?” he enquired.

“Goodness, I don’t know! a week or two, perhaps. Does it signify? Had you rather I went away?”

“Not at all,” he replied politely.

“Well, I’m glad of that, because I mean to visit my old friends, and pick up all the threads again. Also to look about me for a suitable house to be hired for the season next year. I shall be bringing Caroline out, you know. At least, you don’t, but you should. A house with a ballroom, of course—no, I haven’t any desire to hold a ball under any other roof than my own, so you need not be alarmed! Vernon, what, in the name of all that’s marvellous, prevailed upon you to hold one here for Jane Buxted?”

“I didn’t,” he responded. “I held it in order to present Fred Merriville’s daughters to the ton. Can it be that you didn’t know I had taken upon myself the guardianship of a very beautiful girl?”

She tried to keep her countenance, but broke into laughter under the mockery in his eyes. “No, it cannot be! What a detestable creature you are! Very well, I own I am quite consumed with curiosity. But how came it about?”

“Oh, very simply! You may call it the payment of a debt. I’m not, in fact, the Merrivilles’ guardian, but they were commended to my protection. To launch the beauty into society seemed to be the least I could do—so I did it. That is to say, I persuaded Louisa to do it.”

“Demon!” said his sister appreciatively. “Augusta wrote to me that she was as mad as fire when she clapped eyes on your beauty, and has been glumping ever since! And the other one? Is she a beauty too?”

“Oh, no! Not to compare with Charis!” he said indifferently. “She is the eldest of the family, and has charge of the younger ones. My guardianship, you perceive, is purely nominal: I have really very little to do with them.”

At this somewhat inopportune moment, Wicken entered the room, and said demurely: “Master Felix has called, asking to see your lordship. Shall I show him in, my lord?”

“Now, what the devil does he want?” demanded the Marquis, in accents of foreboding. “Tell him I’m—no, I suppose I shall have to see him: show him in!” He glanced down at his sister, and said, with the hint of a rueful smile: “You are about to make the acquaintance of the youngest Merriville, Eliza—a devilish brat!” He turned his head, as Wicken ushered Felix into the room, and said: “Well, Felix? What’s the scrape?”

“Sir!” uttered Felix, outraged. “There isn’t any scrape!”

“Accept my apologies! Just a social visit! Eliza, allow me to introduce Felix to you: one of my wards! Felix, this is my sister, Lady Elizabeth Kentmere.”

“Oh!—Oh, I didn’t know—I beg pardon, ma’am!” said Felix, looking a trifle discomfited, but achieving a very creditable bow. He cast an anxious glance at Alverstoke. “P’raps I had better come to see you tomorrow, sir? I didn’t mean to—to
intrude,
only Wicken didn’t tell me—and I have something very particular to say to you!”

Lady Elizabeth, the mother of three hopeful sons, interposed, saying: “Then of course you mustn’t lose a moment! Is your business of a private nature? Shall I excuse myself to my brother, and go away for a while?” Perceiving, from the twinkle in her eyes, that she was what he termed a right one, he grinned engagingly at her, and answered: “Oh, no, ma’am—thank you! It is only a
little
private! If you won’t
tell
anyone?”

“I’m true blue, and will never stain!” she replied promptly.

“Cut line, Felix!” commanded Alverstoke. “If it isn’t a scrape,
what
is it?”

“Well—well, it’s a balloon, Cousin Alverstoke!” disclosed Felix, taking his fence in a. rush.

Lady Elizabeth was betrayed into laughter, which she hastily turned into a fit of coughing; but his lordship merely said, in the voice of one inured to misfortune: “Is it indeed? And what have I—or you, for that matter!—to do with balloons?”

“But, sir—!” said Felix, deeply shocked. “You
must
know that there is to be an ascension from Hyde Park
_s
on Thursday!”

“I didn’t, however. And let me tell you, here and now, that I have no interest in balloons! So, if you are going to ask me to take you to see this ascension, my answer is NO! You can very well go to Hyde Park without my escort.”

“Yes, but the thing is, I
can’t
!”
said Felix. Suddenly assuming the demeanour of an orphan cast penniless upon the world, he raised melting blue eyes to his lordship’s face, and said beseechingly: “Oh, Cousin Alverstoke, do, pray, go with me! You
must
!
It’s—it’s obligary!” he produced urgently.