Lady Incognita (7 page)

  Entirely futile were Louisa’s attempts to keep Atherton out of the book. Intrude he must. Even the utter ridiculousness of imagining herself the prisoner of a fiendish monk as poor Bernice was did not stop Louisa from partaking vicariously  of Bernice’s every palpitating emotion.

“This,” said she aloud to herself, the third morning after the fateful trip to the abbey, “has got to stop. I am behaving like a schoolroom miss. A grown woman like me! How chuckleheaded.”

She had come up to her room after their late breakfast with mixed feelings. Her writing, in spite of - or perhaps because of -Atherton’s intrusion had been going quite well. She found herself eager to sit down at her writing desk and resume the lovers’ adventures. But the agitated state in which she left that same desk hours later, a state in which she
would
hope against all common sense that his lordship would call again, took some time to dissipate.

This morning, Reginald, having managed to free Bernice from her dismal cell, was hurrying her across the deserted courtyard of the abbey.

“There,” cried he in a voice of triumph, pointing to a gnarled tree, its deformed limbs barely visible against the frightening lightning-laced sky. “There is where I left the horses.”

His arm around her waist, Reginald assisted his beloved across the broken and uneven stones of the courtyard.

Bernice, conscious that the wicked monk Columbo might make his appearance at any moment, felt the comforting warmth of Reginald’s arm as a bulwark against evil.

The pen in Louisa’s hand ceased moving. A bulwark against evil. Was that perhaps what every woman longed for? Someone to take care of her?

“But you are perfectly capable of taking care of yourself,” a voice inside her said; and she knew that it was true.  

Nevertheless she recognized another part of herself, perhaps even stronger than that first, a part that yearned for - even demanded - a hero.

With a deep sigh Louisa put the pen to paper again, but before she could resume writing there came a hurried knock at the door.

“Louisa,” Betsy called. “Come quickly. We’ve got company.”

For a long moment Louisa sat immobile, fighting against the hope in her heart. It could not be him. By the time she had regained her voice and called out tremulously, “Who is it?” Betsy had already clattered back down the stairs.

  With a shake of her head Louisa pulled herself together. She must not sit here like a block while her visitors cooled their heels in the drawing room.

She paused for a moment before the cheval glass to tuck a stray curl up under her cap and then, telling herself that she was being ridiculous even to think that the caller might be his lord-ship, she made her way down the stairs to her visitors.

The first sight to meet her eyes as she entered the drawing room was a lady, a fashionably dressed lady of medium years. There was something disturbingly familiar about the dark eyes under the dark hair, but before Louisa could quite put a finger on what it was, the stranger spoke. “I am sorry to disturb you at your accounts, Miss Penhope,” said she in softly modulated tones. “But ever since Philip mentioned you I have been dying to make your acquaintance. Your Mama, you know, was a dear friend of mine.”

Louisa advanced toward the lady, conscious that at the sound of Atherton’s name the color had flooded her cheeks. “I ... I am afraid I was not expecting callers,” she stammered.
“We have very few.”

“Indeed that is something I mean to remedy. Come my dear and sit down.”

Louisa sank into a nearby chair.

“I see that Philip did not bother to mention my existence to you,” the lady continued.

“But I have remedied that,” said Atherton from the doorway, “by bringing my sister to meet you. Here she is, Miss Penhope, my sister, Lady Constance Palmerton.”

Louisa, fighting to keep her feelings from overwhelming her at the sight of the familiar features that had been so on her mind, turned back to the sister. “I am very pleased to meet you. Lady Palmer-ton. But I am afraid I do not recall my Mama mentioning you.”

“Dear, that signifies nothing,” said Lady Constance calmly. “Your dear Mama and I were bosom-bows in our girlhoods. But after we married we drifted apart. Hus-bands, bless their hearts, are such demanding creatures.”

Louisa, venturing to look once more at Atherton, saw that he was smiling at his sister. “Do not let Constance fool you,” he said, meeting Louisa’s eyes in a familiar way that almost put her to the blush again.
“She
is the demanding one in her household.”

“Philip always was a spoiled boy,” observed Lady Constance, giving her brother an affectionate smile. “But I suppose it cannot be helped. Mama and I both doted on him so.”

  The object of the comment chuckled heartily. “Come, Constance,” he observed. “We did not come here to give Miss Penhope our life histories.”

“Dear me, no. And dreadfully dull they would be, too. At least mine. Yes, yes, Philip. There is no need to glare so.” She turned to Louisa. “I have come to see if I might be of some use in introducing you to the
ton,
Miss Penhope. It is perhaps a little late for you to come out.”

“It is indeed,” cried Louisa in some alarm.

“But Philip told me of your plans for your sister. If you intend to bring her out, you had best begin now by getting yourself known.”

“But it will be several years at least,” protested Louisa.

“Fine,” said Lady Constance complacently. “That will give us just enough time to get you well established.”

“That is very kind of you. Lady Palmer-ton. But it is much too much for me to presume on such a short acquaintance.” She shot a quick glance at his lordship, but that gentleman appeared to be engrossed in studying his fingernails.

“Oh, but my dear. Your Mama and I, we were such good friends.”

  For some reason Louisa could not quite believe this, but she could hardly tell the kindhearted lady so to her face. And so she was forced to mumble something like, “You are very kind.”

“Good,” said her ladyship with a happy smile. “Now we can get down to business. I have a friendship with Lady Sefton - amiable soul, that woman, the kindest heart. And I shall prevail upon her to get you on the list for Almack’s”

“Lady Palmerton! I have no desire to go to Almack’s.”

“That doesn’t signify,” said his lordship with a smile. “Admittance to Almack’s makes you one of the elite and will help admirably in your placing Betsy.”

With a sigh Louisa was forced to recognize the truth of this statement. “You will accompany us to the Opera and the theater,” continued Lady Constance, happily engrossed in her plans.

Louisa, overwhelmed by visions of costly gowns that would send her accounts ever skyward, sought vainly to stem the lady’s flow of plans.

“You might as well give over the reins,” observed his lordship. And if he noticed her distress, he did not remark further on it. “When Constance has determined to launch someone, they
will be
launch-ed.”

  The dark eyes that regarded her so intently were quite inscrutable. Louisa found herself wishing that she knew what was going on behind them.

The late Viscount Atherton’s debt of honor to Colonel Pickering and Lady Palmerton’s friendship with her Mama seemed alike improbable, something out a novel, Louisa thought. But one could hardly fly in the face of such friendliness. It was not good manners.

Lady Constance was still deep in thought and Louisa endeavoring not to color up under the close scrutiny of his lordship’s eyes, when Aunt Caroline and Harry entered the room, followed by Drimble, carrying tea and macaroons.

“This is my Aunt, Mrs. Pickering,” said Louisa. “Aunt, this is Lord Atherton’s sister, Lady Palmerton.”

Aunt Caroline seemed to take the lady in her stride. “I am most pleased to meet you,” she said, drawing up a chair beside her ladyship and the tea and proceeding to serve it. “Have you an interest in cats?”

Before Louisa could hear Lady Palmer-ton’s reply, Harry spoke. “Betsy’s gone to get Apricot, sir. Like you said. I suppose she’s still too young - Apricot, I mean. But Betsy wants you to see how she’s grown.”

“Thank you. Harry,” said his lordship, bringing a smile to the child’s face. “Is Aunt Julia about?”

Louisa shook her head. “I’m afraid not. She has gone to hear a lecture on phrenology and compare notes with her friends.”

Atherton sighed. “What a shame. I had thought to have her study my sister’s skull. Though perhaps she would have difficulty finding it under all those curls.

Lady Palmerton, deeply engrossed in a conversation on the merits of Persians against those of Manchester cats, did not reply.

“Sir,” asked Harry, the expression on his round face clearly copying that of his idol, “Have you Restrained?”

Atherton chuckled. “I am working on it, Harry, my boy. I am working on it. My destructiveness is well under control. My combativeness? Well, I have engaged in no mills since I saw you last. And my secretiveness - perhaps Aunt made a mistake there.”

“And your amativeness?” asked Betsy, entering the room with a squirming Apricot in her arms.

“That,” said his lordship, with an unfathomable glance at Louisa, “remains to be worked on. Such a quality, you know, bodes well for a man who desires to marry.”

  “Oh.” Betsy’s face fell. “I had hoped you would wait for me,” said she. “For you are so like a hero out of a romance that I think you would make an admirable husband.”

Louisa, whose somewhat circuitous discussion with Betsy over amativeness had caused her considerably more discomfort than it had the child, colored up. Pray God, Betsy would not repeat everything her sister had said.

Fortunately, however, Betsy was distracted by his lordship’s chuckle. “I collect that I am too old for you, Betsy my dear. Why, I could almost be your Papa. I am two and thirty, you see.”

Betsy considered this for a moment and then sighed. “I expect you are right. I should not want to be nursing a doddering old gentleman when I am just in my prime.”

“Betsy!”  Louisa could not forbear interjecting, “his lordship will not be doddering for some time to come.”

“You are right, Louisa,” said Betsy with a mischievous grin. “But I collect there are other heroes around, perhaps with a few less years. And I shall encounter one of them.”

“Betsy, what did I tell ...” began Louisa and then hesitated.

  “About heroes?” asked Betsy airily. “Oh, I quite remember. But how do you expect me to believe such nonsense when his lordship is right there in the flesh disproving it? Now it stands to reason that if one hero exists, others may too.”

And with this firm declaration Betsy put Apricot on the floor. The kitten took one look around, blinked his green eyes, and made a dash for his lordship’s top boots where he attempted to scale the highly polished height of one.

“Oh!” exclaimed Louisa, looking in dismay at the marred boot, the surface of which bore the unmistakable furrows of Apricot’s tiny claws.

Atherton shrugged, his heavy lids falling lazily over his eyes. “Do not distress yourself. Ainsley, my valet, is a whiz at such things. A little champagne in the blacking and all will be well again.”

“Champagne?” Betsy and Harry echoed in unison.

“Of course. Have you not heard that the great Beau Brummell blacks his boots with champagne? It is that which accounts for their high gloss.”

The children, not knowing whether to accept this tale as true or not, both giggled.

Apricot, having exhausted all efforts to climb the insurmountable, scampered away to explore under the furniture.

“Are you still of a mind to give Apricot to me?” asked his lordship of Betsy.

“Oh yes, sir.”

“Good. I imagine he will be old enough in a week or two.”

There was the sound of rending cloth from under a nearby chair. “Perhaps,” said his lordship with a swift glance at Louisa, “perhaps you had better return Apricot to his Mama. Kitten claws are very hard on delicate furniture.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Betsy. And Harry, at a nod from his lordship, hurried after her.

“I see that you are looking well.” His lordship moved his chair somewhat closer to Louisa’s.

“Th - thank you,” she murmured. And then, at a loss for something to say, sat silent.

“I thought you seemed rather amazed to see me,” commented his lordship suddenly.

Louisa, taken by surprise, blurted out, “I was.”

“Did I not tell you that I intended to return?” asked his lordship in a dangerously level tone.

“Yes, but...”

“You will learn that I always do what I say I shall,” said Atherton, his dark eyes locking with hers. “Always.”

“It was only ... That is, I thought ... What should
you
want with a kitten?” Louisa finally stammered.

“Perhaps I
like
kittens,” said his lordship. “At any rate, I practically promised the child that I should take one. I should never let a child down.”

Louisa, the red rising to her cheeks, felt that she had misjudged the man. Just because he was every inch an aristocrat and bore himself as a man of the world, just because the black eyes under the heavy lids looked on life with lazy amusement, that did not mean that he was not a man of honor.

“I... I am sorry,” she said humbly. “But I have known few lords.”

“Except in romances,” said the Vis-count, his tone considerably lighter. “I collect there are many lords in their pages.”

“Yes,” agreed Louisa. “But they are not real.”

“What?” His lordship’s dark eyes danced with mischief. “Would you fly in the face of Providence? Surely Betsy’s eyes are no sharper than your own. Can you not recognize in me a hero incarnate?”

Louisa, who found any mention of romances uncomfortable, was saved from blurting out some betraying sentiment by the sudden entrance of Aunt Julia.

  “Ah,” said his lordship. “The scientist has arrived. Constance my dear,” he continued as Aunt Julia advanced into the room. “This is Louisa’s Aunt Julia, sister to the late Colonel. Miss Pickering, my sister, Lady Constance Palmerton.”

Aunt Julia nodded somewhat diffidently, as though not having time to take from science for such niceties. “I have just heard the most ridiculous lecture,” she observed to the room in general. “The man knew nothing of phrenology.”