Lady John (24 page)

Menwin shook his head, smiling. “Olivia, I have been in love
with you for three years. If you have ideas, they are your ideas, and I will
love them. At worst, what can happen? We will quarrel.” His smile broadened. “And
make up. Your experience of married life may not have taught you, my darling,
that making up a quarrel can be the very nicest part.”

“I had learned that. But what experience do
you
draw from, sir?” she teased.

“Rumor. Hearsay. And instinct, of course. I wonder that you
would dare to quiz me in such a fashion.” To prove that he bore no grudge
Menwin pulled her back into his arms and kissed her again.

At the next rational interval Olivia raised her head from
its very comfortable position on Lord Menwin’s shoulder and gasped: “Mamma!”

“What is it, love? You know your mother is welcome to live
with us as long as she wishes, sweetheart.”

She smiled at him warmly. “I never doubted that, Matthew.
But I must tell her! No,” she added lovingly,
“we
must
tell her.”

“Is she here? I did not see her.”

“She and Bette went downstairs half an hour ago to collect
some pattern-books from the salon. Matthew, darling, we ought to go back in to
the Duchess. It is the height of impropriety to appropriate her dressing room
in this fashion.”

“I suppose she must wish to dress sooner or later. Shall we
search out your mother, then?”

Hand in hand they reentered the Duchess’s chamber, to find
Judith Tylmath, Susannah, and Kit calmly taking biscuits and tea, to the
scandalized indignation of Glessock.

“Finished with your billing and cooing, children? I cannot
understand what all this fuss is about. After all, I could have told you all
how it would turn out, once I had taken a hand—” the Duchess waved an airy
hand.

“Helped on by fate and Mr. Haikestill,” Lord Christopher
added.

“Bear in mind, Kit, dear, that you are the next upon my
list,” the Duchess reminded sweetly. “I have given up on Julian entirely. He
will continue to have fruitless
tendres
for
the rest of his life. But
you
I must needs
marry off successfully.” Lord Kit, unperturbed by this announcement, continued
drinking his tea. “Which reminds me, Livvy my dear. Where on earth have Bette
and Mrs. Martingale got to?”

“We were just wondering that ourselves, ma’am,” Menwin
agreed. “I intend to spirit my fiancée off to find her mother and obtain her
blessing—”

But no search was necessary, as Mrs. Martingale, with Lady
Bette behind her in a state of poorly concealed hilarity, entered the room at
that moment.

“My dear Duchess, I hope you will not think I have been
excessively rude,” Mrs. Martingale began breathlessly. She was very red in the
face, and her plump bosom swelled unevenly with hurried breath.

“Oh, she was excessively rude, Mamma, and how you would have
enjoyed it!” Lady Bette burst in heedlessly. The Duchess, seeing that her
daughter’s words had upset the older woman, waved an impatient hand in her
direction and begged Mrs. Martingale to sit down.

“I am certain that whatever it was, my dear ma’am, you are
in no wise to blame,” she assured her. “You must tell us what the matter is.
And we have such splendid news for you!”

But Mrs. Martingale, having caught sight of her daughter
hand in hand with Lord Menwin, made a rapid connection between appearance and
reality, and went toward the couple all a-beam, her hands outstretched.

“Wish me joy, Mamma,” Olivia said simply.

“My dearest, I do,” Mrs. Martingale assured her. “It is of
all things the very one I would have hoped for you. But what has happened?”

So the story was told anew, and at the end Mrs. Martingale
announced that she always
knew
Mr.
Haikestill would do them a service one day. “Once I thought it might be by
marrying Livvy, but now I see it was by eloping with Miss Casserley instead!”

“But Mamma, what had you so
a-flutter when you came in?” Olivia asked some time later.

Mrs. Martingale blushed.

“Surely Julian cannot have been plaguing you again,” Lady
Susannah said hopelessly. “Good Lord, what an impossible idiot the man is.”

“He shan’t bother Mrs. M. again, I’ll warrant,” Lady Bette assured
the company. Mrs. Martingale’s blush deepened.

“Mamma, what happened!”

“She sent him about his business, that’s what happened!”
Bette crowed. “Told him not to behave like a spoilt, idiotish mooncalf. Told
him that a man of seven-and-thirty should be fixing his interest with a woman
to give him heirs, rather than annoying a respectable widow who—” Bette paused
for maximum effect— “loathed him!”

“It was when he spoke badly of Olivia that my temper
snapped,” Mrs. Martingale added apologetically.

“Oh, had you but seen her! Boadicea is nothing to it! She
rose up, stared down her nose at Julian, gave him his comeuppance, and all the
while he stood there with his chin wobbling like a turkey-fowl!”

Oblivious to the admiration this description occasioned, Mrs.
Martingale hung her head unhappily until the Duchess, subduing her chuckles,
took her hand and assured her that such a scolding would do her eldest son
wonders. “It may be all of a week before he has returned to his usual plaguey
ways.”

“I misdoubt it will be that long,” Lady Bette argued. “I
heard only last night that Harriette Willson had sent Julian one of her famous
letters of invitation!”

Ignoring the fact that her youngest daughter spoke quite
easily of the premiere courtesan of London, the Duchess said roundly that Miss
Willson would get precious little sport from Julian.

“I know that, Mamma, and you know it, but I misdoubt either
the divine Harriette or Julian knows it!” Kit chuckled.

Mrs. Martingale, bemused by this strange family which
regarded the entanglement of the head of the family with such a woman as a
matter for amusement, retreated to her daughter’s side.

“Don’t fret, Mamma. I shall take you home and away from
these perplexing people,” Olivia assured her.

“We shall take her home, sweetheart,” Menwin corrected. “If
you do not mind? I think my betrothed and her mother and I have a good deal to
discuss.” He tightened his grasp on Olivia’s hand. “I intend to marry you by
special license, and as quickly as decently possible, before something new goes
awry.”

“Take her home, Matthew, by all means,” the Duchess urged. “Look
at the hour, and I am not even dressed yet.” Heaving her uncorsetted bulk out
of the chair in which she had been settled, the Duchess gathered the folds of
her puce robe about her. “I shall dismiss all of you to your own apartments, I
think.” This was said with a stare in the direction of Kit, who had contrived
to eat the last of the biscuits and sat now, staring pensively at the fire, as
if he might never move. “Sue, Bette, take your brother with you, I beg!”

Olivia broke away from Menwin for a moment to press a quick,
warm kiss on her mother-at-law’s cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, child, go!” the Duchess scolded. All
the same she placed two affectionate fingers on Olivia’s cheek. Then, turning
to the others in the room she bade them go and leave her in peace to dress.

Left alone with Glessock, Judith Tylmath permitted herself
to drop back upon her bed for a few minutes. “Only to regain my strength, Glessock,”
she assured her dresser. “Although honestly, I must admit that with half of
London coming to spread their stories and their love scenes before me when I
have not even finished my morning chocolate, I see very little point in
dressing at all. I suppose one could lock one’s door, of course.” Miss Glessock
made no reply. A few minutes later the Duchess murmured, rather sleepily, “No,
that would not do either. After all, one of the children might get into a coil
and need me to straighten it out for them, eh Glessock?”

Madeleine Robins is the author of 11 novels, including five Regency romances; the dark urban fantasy
The Stone War
; and three books in the Sarah Tolerance mystery series:
Point of Honour,
Petty Treason,
and
The Sleeping Partner.
She holds a BA in Theatre from Connecticut College, and attended the Clarion Writers Workshop.

Lady John

Madeleine Robins

Book View Café Edition February 28, 2012

ISBN: 978-1-61138-150-4

First published by Fawcett Coventry, 1982

Copyright © 1982 by Madeleine Robins

All Rights Reserved

Cover by Amy Sterling Casil

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Book View Café edition
February 28, 2012
ISBN: 978-1-61138-150-4
Copyright © 1982 Madeleine Robins
www.bookviewcafe.com

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As is quite often the case in small households, it was soon spread about from scullery to nursery that Miss Prydd had that afternoon received a letter bearing the frank of the earl of Boskingram. This, in a household the size of Mrs. Winchell’s, was cause for some excitement, although Miss Prydd herself did not discover the letter until she returned, some two hours late, from a visit to the neighboring Dumsford parish, by which time all in the house, from Mrs. Winchell to Addie, the scullery maid, were agog to know what the note portended. On entering the house, Miss Prydd was apprised no less than three times of the letter and its noble origin, and was directed to the drawing room, where her aunt was keeping the note for her.

“Dear child, come and see what has arrived! I’d no idea you had such connections!” Mrs. Winchell, a large, indolent woman currently employed in toasting plump feet by the firedogs and tracing a silhouette from an outdated issue of
La Belle Assemblée
, waved her handkerchief, in what she imagined to be a suitably languid fashion, in the direction of the letter. A large, extremely orange, and plebeian cat stared balefully up at Miss Prydd from the seat of the only other chair near the fire. “Kubla, move, if you please!” Mrs. Winchell commanded automatically, but not until Miss Prydd switched at him with the famous envelope did the cat relinquish his throne.

“Good heavens, ma’am, an earl! I’ve no notion who belongs to such a household among my acquaintance. No.” She continued positively, after a moment’s reflection while wrestling with her bonnet. “No, Alison Cartmell married the second son of a duke, and Maria Ervine married a baronet, and poor Claire Seabank has been engaged these last ten years and more as a governess in Lady Amblemere’s house, but no one that I know could procure a frank from an earl! I suppose I had best open it and find out....”

Since this was precisely what Mrs. Winchell and her entire household had been waiting for all afternoon, Miss Prydd heard no objection. From the envelope a large, heavy card was produced, bearing the arms of the earl of Boskingram. In a clear, secretarial hand, Miss lphegenia Prydd was bidden to the wedding of Miss Althea Ervine and Sir Tracy Calendar, at the express wish of Margaret, Dowager Countess Boskingram. “Well, that makes all clear, doesn’t it?” Miss Prydd exclaimed cheerfully, to the frustration of Mrs. Winchell, who was still uninformed as to the letter’s content.

“Makes what clear?” her aunt said helplessly. “My child, nothing has explained anything to
me
.” But lphegenia was already halfway through the second note, a thin slip of paper, which had fallen from the envelope at the invitation’s removal. At its completion, she briskly folded the note back into the envelope and launched into her story.

“The note is from Maria Bevan, ma’am, whom I knew as Maria Ervine at school. It seems that her sister Althea is to be married, and to the nephew of this Lady Boskingram, and I am invited, and to bear Mary company fora while.... She seems to regard the whole affair as very trying, although if Lady Boskingram is to be responsible for the wedding—surely that is a trifle unusual, ma’am?”

“And do you mean to go, Genia?” Mrs. Winchell asked vaguely, trying to make some sense of this scattered narrative.

“Surely, Aunt Ellen, that’s more your decision than mine. I should dearly love to go, but can you spare me?”