Lady John (14 page)

“No, I mean the young lady in the blue dress. I have seen
her before in company with someone else,” Olivia hedged. Lady Susannah turned
to regard her companion suspiciously.

“The sobersides in the blue dress? If you raised that hem
six inches, Lady John, I warrant me you would find the bluest stockings in
London. That’s Lady Whelke’s daughter,” Mr. Flaxham explained. “Miss Jane
Casserley.”

Uneasily, Lady Susannah pressed Olivia. “Do you feel you can
tear yourself away now, Livvy?”

Olivia assured her that she was at her service, and while
Mr. Flaxham went to order their carriage Olivia sought their wraps. Inside of
five minutes the two ladies were installed in the Duchess’s brougham, wheeling
toward Queen Anne’s Street.

Not five minutes after the departure of Lady Susannah Reeve
and Lady John Temperer, an announcement was made of the most interesting
nature. Lady Whelke, with her taciturn spouse beside her, took great pleasure
in announcing the betrothal of their daughter Jane to Matthew Polry, Viscount
Menwin.

If Olivia had, by a lucky stroke of fortune, missed the
first announcement of Miss Casserley’s engagement to Menwin, she was not kept
long in ignorance.

Arising early the morning after Lady Whelke’s party, she
took her chocolate in bed, dressed, and wrote a few short notes which she had
long meant to complete; finding that her mother was at last awake, she went to
join her for breakfast. Mrs. Martingale was informed of the better part of the
occurrences at Lady Whelke’s (although Olivia’s discussion with Lord Menwin was
not disclosed), and the meal was enlivened by some cogent observations on the
dress and manners of some of her fellow guests there. Mrs. Martingale
tssked
amiably at her daughter’s caricatures and
began to shuffle through the cards of invitation, the letters, and the trades
bills which had been brought in, together with the new issue of the
Gazette.
Mrs. Martingale happily gave the mail
over for her daughter’s perusal and turned her own attention to the social
news.

“Good heavens, Livvy, do look and see who is betrothed!”
With the air of someone sharing a great joke, Mrs. Martingale offered the paper
to her child, indicating the item of interest by the placement of her thumb.

BETROTHAL. An engagement has been contracted between Jane
Alicia, daughter of Frederick Casserley, third Baron Whelke; and Matthew
Arringfield Polry, Viscount Menwin, heir of the Earl of Mardries.

The variety of feelings which Olivia experienced between the
first word and the last of that short paragraph culminated in one simple and
very emphatic sentiment: rage.

Mrs. Martingale, still chuckling as if the betrothal were a
very good joke indeed, went on to the court news, and was astounded to hear her
daughter exclaim, some minutes later: “That unutterable beast!”

“O-
livia
! Who on earth
can you be speaking of?”

“That odious loose-screw! That toad-eating, impossible queer
nabs! That insufferable, horrible blackguard! That he could have the
unspeakable effrontery to be angry with
me,
and
then cry friends, when all the while—Ooooooh!” Having run out of such
expletives as a young lady could decently use in the company of her mother,
Lady John gave vent to a part of her anger by throwing the sofa cushions, one
by one, at the opposite wall. Her teacup followed. Then, having exorcised her
devil, at least temporarily, she sat absolutely still, trembling a little. Her
mother became fearful, seeing the strange color in her daughter’s cheek and the
militant look in her eye.

“May I know what has you so overset, dearest?” Mrs.
Martingale asked at last, in the most timid of voices.

As if called from some great distance Olivia turned to look
at her mother. Gradually some of the anger seeped away, and she saw only her
mother’s plump, anxious face, round and bewildered and framed by the crumpled
lace of her cap and negligee.

“I’m sorry, Mamma. You could not possibly have known of it.”

“Certainly not, precious,” Mrs. Martingale soothed, drawing
her more tractable child close to her and smoothing the ruddy curls under her
hand. “Can you tell me what the matter is now?”

“Mamma, you sound as if I were five years old again,” Olivia
chuckled weakly. But she made no move to escape her mother’s embrace, and
submitted docilely to five minutes of maternal cuddling. In bits and pieces the
story of the interview with Menwin at Lady Whelke’s came out, and by the time
it was done Olivia was weeping desultorily, a sniff here and a sob there.

“I would not have thought that lovely Colonel Polry capable
of such a thing, dearest. You know he has seemed much changed since we met him
again at Catenhaugh. Perhaps he has his reasons.”

“Mamma, it is not that I dislike his being betrothed to that—that
icy blue-stocking!” Olivia stopped, compelled by honesty to consider. “Well,
no, I suppose that I do mind it. But that’s not to the point. It is that he
could stand there, cool as you please, telling me that he thought I was—Good
God, Mamma, me!—a heartless little flirt. He let me stand there and tell him
the most dreadfully compromising things, and all the while he was waiting to go
back to the card rooms and drink a betrothal toast with Miss Casserley. He is
welcome to her! She is welcome to him! I hope they make each other altogether
miserable!” Olivia rose from the circle of her mother’s arms and paced swiftly
across the room, trying to calm her agitation. “What an idiot he must think me!
How he must have been amused! Well, at least I was an honest idiot, for I would
swear that when we knew him in Brussels he was not a deceiver or a liar.
Perhaps he thought he was serving me my just desserts for marrying John. Ooooo.”
Wordless again, Olivia continued to pace the room.

“Livvy, my love, you must not let yourself be so concerned
with this. If Colonel Pol—I mean, if Lord Menwin meant to deceive you that is a
very sad thing and one must condemn it. But if he did not mean to deceive you,
why the case is altered somewhat.”

“Not meant to deceive me? How, pray, could he have managed
that? He was there to announce his engagement, Mamma. If he had not meant to
deceive me all he needed to say was that he was pleased our differences were
settled, and perhaps to ask me to give him joy. Certainly he need not have made
that
very
affecting gesture of kissing my
hand and murmuring of love!”

Mrs. Martingale agreed that this was indeed a damning
circumstance. “But there may be other things we cannot know of, my love.”

Olivia regarded her mother with a weary eye. “Six months ago
you scolded me for seeing too many sides of an issue. Now, when I can see but
one—the right one, mind you—you are preaching my own doctrine back at me.”

“Six months ago,” her mother reminded, “we were speaking of
the Duke of Tylmath, and as it fell out, I was right. He is a very odious
little man; even his mamma owns it. Can you be so certain that I am not right
now?”

Cowed by this unfair appeal to logic, Olivia dropped back
onto the sofa. “Mamma, you are a witch. And I suppose you are right. But I
cannot help—”

“No more should you,” Mrs. Martingale soothed. “I think the
best thing in the world for you is to spend an afternoon doing something
totally frivolous. Something not even remotely concerned with men.”

“Warehouses
again?”
Olivia
eyed her mother with a mixture of respect and awe. “Mamma, how many dresses do
you think I can wear in one Season?”

“A great number more than you
shall
wear, I am certain. Do you dislike the idea?”

Consideringly: “No. But I may fetch us to debt’s door in the
mood I’m in. Will you chaperone me, love?”

Mrs. Martingale smiled mistily at her daughter. “I shall
guard you from your worst impulses,” she assured her.

A few minutes were spent by Olivia arranging her collar and
straightening the cap she wore, and wiping the more obvious tearstains from her
cheeks. Then she left her mother to the ministrations of Melber, and returned
to her own room to change into a walking dress suitable for a shopping tour.
The moment she left, Mrs. Martingale, who believed only so far in the efficacy
of a new bonnet as a palliative for female woes, tossed the offending
Gazette
into the fire and watched it blaze.

o0o

Olivia was not so extravagant as she had feared. Two lengths
of muslin, a length of topaz silk to be worn with an underslip of lavender
velours coupe,
three black ostrich feathers from
a plumassier just off Bond Street, two pairs of kid gloves and one of York tan,
and a pair of slippers to be dyed topaz, sufficed to soothe her spirit
somewhat. Mrs. Martingale, strictly in the spirit of companionship, purchased a
length of rose-colored kerseymere, three pairs of lace mitts, a bonnet trimmed
with a pair of surprising lilies, and two lace caps. They discussed the idea of
venturing to the Tower to see the menagerie there, or driving along Cheyne Row
by the river, but neither really had the heart for it. Mrs. Martingale was
beginning to realize that her shoes pinched, and Olivia was tiring from such an
expense of emotion so early in the day. Their landaulet was turned in the
direction of Queen Anne’s Street.

“What are you engaged for this evening, love?” Mrs.
Martingale asked idly, staring out the window.

“We were both engaged by Mr. Haikestill for the play, Mamma.
After refusing him a dance on Monday, and resisting his flatteries on Tuesday,
by Wednesday I was entirely without defenses and promised us both.”

Mrs. Martingale wrinkled her nose ruefully. “I do not mean
to cry off, of course, but I could wish it were some other evening.”

Olivia’s expression was more than sympathetic, but, “I
misdoubt you could cry off for anything less than the smallpox, Mamma,” she
said glumly. Recognizing that Livvy was disposed for the sulks Mrs. Martingale
made no effort at further conversation, and the two sat silent in the carriage.

o0o

The tray in the hall was piled with cards when they enter
the house. Their packages were brought from the carriage and transferred by
Puddlesey into the waiting arms of Bliss, Melber, and a housemaid impressed for
that duty. Mrs. Martingale suggested tea in the small salon. “Tea and a nap, I
think,” she said. Olivia followed meekly, shuffling through the cards she had taken
from the salver.

“Mr. Haikestill. Has the man no mercy? Miss Campion and Miss
Angelica Campion. Lady Jersey—Good heavens, Mamma, what could Lady Jersey want
with us? Mr. Cottlesmere. Lord Christopher Temperer—see, Mamma, Kit has
returned to Town again. I thought we had scared him away for good with our
ball. Mr. Robert Guiles. Miss Peele. Lord M—”

Olivia’s voice died to a whisper. Then: “Of all the
incredible presumption! What kind of ninnyhammer does he take me for?” She
crumpled Menwin’s card in her hand and tossed it away. Then, seeing her mother’s
anxious look, “No, Mamma. I shan’t repeat this morning’s performance. What
would you do then? Take me out to buy another dress? A basket of sweetmeats
from Gunter’s? I’ve done. Let me see.” She made her voice cheery. “Here’s an
army of Havershams. Miss Haversham. Mr. Haversham. Mr. Giles Haversham. And
Miss Sophronia Haversham. Well, how busy the house has been in our absence.”

Olivia sank back into her chair with a distinctly drawn
face. When the tea was brought in she drank half a cup, then excused herself to
lie down. Mrs. Martingale, watching her go, could only pray that this pain
would work itself out. She had never seen her equable child so overset—not at
her marriage nor at her widowhood. Almost, she could have cursed Matthew Polry.
But an instinct bade her wait before she condemned him.

Her instincts were well favored. Soon after the tea tray was
taken off, just a moment before she rose and retired herself, Puddlesey
announced a visitor: Lord Menwin. After a momentary battle with herself she
told Puddlesey to admit the gentleman.

He looked almost in as bad a case as Olivia. Mrs. Martingale
was not a very observant woman; she was used to her daughter’s moods and could
generally tell when something had happened to overset her, but in the general
way she was not an acute observer of other people’s emotions. But Menwin’s
drawn, sleepless look and wary eyes were symptoms too like Olivia’s for her to
miss.

“Sit down, my lord,” she urged gently. “May I ring for a
glass of wine for you?”

He smiled unhappily. “If you can find it in your heart, I
would appreciate that greatly, ma’am.” He looked around the room as if he
expected Olivia to appear from behind an arras at any moment. “I collect Lady
John is from home this afternoon?”

“She is asleep, I hope. She was rather tired after last
night’s party.”

“Did she stay very late? I did not see her there after…” he
worried.

“I believe that Lady Susannah Reeve prevailed upon her to
leave rather earlier than she had planned; Lady Susannah sustained some
substantial losses at whist…”

Menwin sighed a gusty sigh of relief. Mrs. Martingale,
caught in a peculiar position of not knowing how much he might suppose
her
to know of his interview with Olivia the
night before, decided he had as well know the worst at once. “She did see the
Gazette
this morning, however.”

Menwin nodded fatalistically. “I’ve truly done for it, haven’t
I, ma’am? Would you believe me if I told you that I forgot—God, honestly forgot—Jane
Casserley and her odious family while I was talking with your daughter last night?”
Mrs. Martingale nodded slowly. “You would believe me, no doubt,” he smiled
ruefully. “I misdoubt that Lady John will.”

Mrs. Martingale had to agree that this was in the highest
degree unlikely. Nor, in answer to his next question, could she offer much hope
of success were she to act as an intermediary between the two of them. “After
all, my lord, to what point would it be?”