Lucy (10 page)

Lucy nodded.

“Oh, goody. Then we can suffer together. I’m coming out as well. The whole thing terrifies me. I could have come out just as well back home in Philadelphia, but my mama’s dead-set on me marrying a lord. Are you frightened about your Season?”

“Very much,” said Lucy, warming to the vivacious American. “I gather that one is not supposed to say so. One is supposed to be terribly, terribly languid and say, ‘What a bore it all is,’ except of course it’s not. I think I get a kind of stage fright when I think of it.”

“Me too,” said Didi. “Oh, I do feel we are going to be friends. May I call you Lucy? I’m Didi, as you know. My real name’s Dorothy but no one ever calls me that unless they’re mad at me.”

“I can’t imagine anyone getting ‘mad at you,’” said Lucy.

“Well, my mother does,” laughed Didi. “‘Really, Dorothy,’ she says. ‘I declare you are so rowdy and common, I shudder to think of what London will make of you!’ “

Mrs. Hackett bustled from the room to answer the summons of the doorbell. “I wonder who that can be?” said Didi breathlessly. Her color had become high and her hand was trembling slightly. Lucy smiled down at the smaller girl. Didi was obviously in love. The door of the drawing room opened and Mrs. Hackett strode in.

“I think you know everyone here, Andrew. Unless you haven’t met our latest newcomers. Mr. Balfour-MacGregor and his daughter.”

Andrew Harvey was saying something about no, he hadn’t had that pleasure. Lucy stood rooted to the spot.

Andrew Harvey was dressed in an impeccably cut dark gray suit. He wore a scarlet waistcoat embroidered lavishly with gold birds. The familiar blue, mocking eyes stared across the room directly into Lucy’s own, and she blushed. She felt the blush rising and could not control it or her sudden rapid breathing. She was aware of Didi staring at her and of the sudden wave of antagonism emanating from the girl. Lucy had found a new friend—and lost her—all in the space of a few minutes. Viscount Harvey had swung away to talk to MacGregor, his high-nosed arrogant face breaking up into laughter at something the ex-butler said.

MacGregor was leading him across the room. Lucy could feel her heart thudding against her new Parisian stays.

“My daughter, Lucy,” said MacGregor proudly, unaware of Lucy’s distress and only noticing how the added color in the girl’s face made her look twice as beautiful.

“I feel we have met before,” said Andrew Harvey, taking Lucy’s small hand in his and smiling down into her eyes.

“No. We have not met before,” said Lucy.

“You are Scottish, your father tells me. Lovely country. I was there not so long ago. At Marysburgh. Perhaps you know it?”

“No,” said Lucy vehemently and then blushing again.

“Do you mean to hold Lucy’s hand all day?” demanded Didi in a high, thin voice.

Andrew Harvey laughed and released Lucy’s hand. “I hear tea being announced. You must allow me to escort you, Miss Balfour-MacGregor.”

“You always escort
me
,” said Didi in a high, shrill voice. There was an embarrassed little silence and then Andrew Harvey patted Didi lazily on the cheek. “And so I shall again, Miss Didi, as soon as I am through welcoming the newcomers.”

Lucy walked beside him as if in a dream. Tea was served on a glassed-in terrace overlooking the tumbling sea below. Lucy wished Andrew would turn his attention elsewhere until she had time to compose herself, but every time she looked shyly up from the tea table, the mocking, glinting blue eyes were looking down into her own.

She stared resolutely out at the sea.

“What are you searching the waves for, Miss Balfour-MacGregor?” teased the light, pleasant voice she remembered so well. “Charon, perhaps? I declare I thought I had stepped into the fields of Hades when I arrived. All those white figures wandering in a smoky haze of incense! I am glad to see you were bold enough to wear some color. That’s a very pretty gown. Parisian, is it not?”

“Yes,” said Lucy, changing her gaze from the sea to her teacup.

“This will never do. You are supposed to rap my knuckles with your fan and say that gentlemen shouldn’t know of such things. What do you think of the social delights of Dinard?”

“Very interesting.”

“A model of tact! We do have other amusements, you know. Now, there is an old gentleman whom Mrs. Hackett says is not quite-quite, a Mr. Jones who lives at the other end of town in a vast Gothic mansion. He is very vulgar and very cheerful—straight out of Dickens. Vast meals and jolly entertainments. He is planning a ball to which the whole town is to be invited. Of course, our good hostess will not go because it is rumored that Mr. Jones made his fortune by carrying on where Mr. Crapper left off. And where would we be without Mr. Crapper?”

Lucy blushed. Thomas Crapper was the name that looked up at you when you looked down the toilet bowl—if ladies were ever known to look.

“So
, despite our good hostess’s social damnings about upstarts and people in trade, we shall nonetheless all go and have a splendid time. I like Mr. Jones. He’s from Yorkshire, which isn’t Scottish, but it is
north.
You will go of course. Please say you’ll go. In fact … please say something!”

“How can I,” remarked Lucy with some asperity, “when you won’t even let me get a word in edgewise? I don’t know whether I shall go or not. It’s up to Mr. Balfour-MacGregor.”

“How Victorian! Do you usually call your father Mr. Balfour-MacGregor?”

“Frequently,” said Lucy inanely.

“Quite correct. Shows a proper sign of respect. We should respect our parents’ gray hairs, no matter what scandalous nothings they may be whispering in our hostess’s ear.”

Lucy looked quickly across at Mrs. Hackett. She was leaning forward avidly to listen to what MacGregor was saying and her face was quite mottled with excitement

“The weather,” said Lucy desperately, “is uncommonly blustery …”

“… for the time of year,” blithely finished her infuriating companion. “It may even snow. Now we have disposed of the weather, I shall continue to rattle on regardless, trying to get this conversation or monologue or whatever, on a more exciting footing.”

Lucy gave up. Her green eyes looked straight into the mocking blue ones. “You, my lord,” she accused, “are flirting with me.”

“I’m
trying.
Trying desperately and not getting one inch along the way,” laughed Andrew Harvey. God! Her eyes were glorious. And he
had
at least got her to look at him and never, ever in his life had the viscount had to try so hard to get any young lady to do that.

“I also realize,” he said, dropping his voice, “that I am embarrassing you. The ball is tomorrow night. Please say you’ll come.”

“Yes,” said Lucy baldly, racking her brains for something light and frivolous to say.

“Good. Now I can abandon you to your fate. Boodles has been looking daggers at me. Oh, here he comes, bearing down on us and waving hot buttered crumpet all over the place. I must talk to Didi.”

He rose and made her an elegant little bow and left her feeling as if she had just survived a storm.

Boodles plumped heavily down into his place. "You don’t mind if I talk to you, Miss Balfour-MacGregor? Couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you. Jolly, pretty girl, what. I mean, don’t you know, shut away in this ghastly little town one doesn’t have a chance … I mean, don’t you know?” he ended miserably, looking at her with doglike eyes.

Emboldened by his shyness, Lucy smiled at him. “Dinard seems a very pleasant place. Why do you stay here if you don’t like it?”

“M’mother makes me,” he said. “’Course I don’t mind it
now.
I say. I’m not making you feel uncomfortable or anything?”

“No,” said Lucy. “I feel very comfortable. The view is lovely.”

“Lovely, eh, what!” Boodles let out a great bray of filthy laughter. Lucy shied and peered nervously out of the window, half expecting to see some couple engaged in some obscene act in the bushes. But when she turned back to Boodles, he was staring shyly at the table, his vulgar mirth having disappeared as if it had never existed. Didi was now seated next to Andrew, her little face radiant. Lucy experienced a violent twinge of jealousy followed by a feeling of irritation. She and Didi could have been such friends!

“Do move over and let me have a word with our newcomer.” The speaker was the debutante called Elinor. She did not so much look at Lucy as
point
like a game dog.

When Boodles had ambled reluctantly away, Elinor sat down and put her face very close to Lucy’s. “I have been hearing a
lot
about you,” she began in a tone which suggested that what she had heard was not altogether pleasant. “Scotch, I believe. I know
all
the best families. You know the Dunferns, of course.”

“Of course,” said Lucy. “And I would rather not.” She remembered the footman and felt on safe ground.

“Oh, really, why?”

“I would rather not say.”

“Oh! Where are you going to be when you are in town?”

“I don’t know. We have yet to find a place.”

“How odd.
Our
family has had a house in town for
centuries.”

“Our family,” said Lucy primly, “took a dislike to town in George the Third’s reign.”

“Why?”

“He pinched my great-great grandmother’s bottom, King George did.”

Elinor was impressed despite herself but she was still very jealous.

“Where were you educated?

“At home,” said Lucy stiffly.

“Where’s home?”

For the life of her Lucy could not remember the fictitious place and for a split second wondered what on earth to say. She was saved. Elinor suddenly leapt about three feet in the air and screamed, “Someone pinched my bottom!”

Elinor looked wildly around. So did everyone else. But no one appeared to be near the girl and only Lucy had seen the spritely MacGregor nipping quickly away to the other side of the room.

“It must have been the ghost of George the Third,” said Lucy cheerfully.

“But I didn’t imagine it,” wailed Elinor. “My sit-upon still hurts.” Boodles delivered himself of his usual vulgar laugh and Elinor glared at him.

“Honestly, Boodles. You should send that laugh of yours out to be laundered,” snapped Elinor, turning once again to Lucy. “What were we talking about, Miss Balfour-MacGregor?”

“We weren’t really talking,” said Lucy with sudden asperity.
“You
were asking a frightful lot of questions.”

Lucy had not meant to be so sharp but the sight of Andrew Harvey laughing and chatting with Didi made her feel lost and empty.

With relief, she saw the other man, Buffy, approaching. “Are you going to Mr. Jones’s ball?” he asked.

“If I am invited,” said Lucy.

“Oh, we all are.”

“Pay no attention,” said Mrs. Hackett. “The man is not quite-quite, definitely not pukka-sahib. Not one of us. In trade. Smells of the shop.”

“I say, that’s going a bit far,” cut in Andrew Harvey cheerfully. “Can’t say I’ve ever noticed Jonesy smelling of his products.”

“The clean ones don’t smell,” said MacGregor conversationally. “It’s only when they’ve been
used
…”

Elinor got to her feet. She was quite puce with anger. “Such subjects are
not
discussed in front of ladies. I am surprised at your allowing it. I swear that man"—here she pointed to MacGregor—"has corrupted you.”

She waited for a second, sure of Mrs. Hackett’s apology. After all, she, Elinor, was one of the Bellings of Sussex. But Mrs. Hackett had tasted more heady social gossip than anything Elinor had to offer, so she simply said nothing and stared across the Queen Ann silver teapot with an air of brooding malice.

After Elinor had left, the other guests began to consider taking their leave as well.

Andrew Harvey noticed out of the corner of his eye that Lucy and MacGregor were leaving. “Excuse me, Didi. I feel I should escort the newcomers back to their hotel.”

Didi racked her brains for something to say that would dissuade him but he was already crossing the room to Lucy’s side.

“I will see you both safely home, Mr. Balfour-MacGregor.”

“It’s quite all right,” said the infuriating MacGregor. "Mrs. Hackett has kindly offered her carriage.”

“You have not seen much of Dinard, have you?” asked the persistent viscount of Lucy. “Of course you haven’t. I am sure you can trust me with her as far as the hotel, sir.”

“Very well,” said MacGregor. “Off you go if you insist on walking.”

Lucy’s heart began to hammer. They would be alone, she and Andrew Harvey, as alone as they had been on the Scottish hillside. They would walk above the tumbling sea and under the tinny rattling of the winter palms …

“What a ripping idea. I declare I will walk as well.” It was Didi. Andrew swore under his breath.

“Good idea,” he said. “Boodles will escort Didi and I will show Miss Balfour-MacGregor the sights of our adopted town.”

Boodles and Didi were quite patently furious. Boodles would have liked to escort the attractive newcomer himself, and Didi, of course, wanted the viscount to herself.

Outside, Andrew Harvey held out his arm to Lucy. She put her hand timidly on his arm, feeling as if an electric charge had just been shot through her body.

Didi and Boodles followed behind them along the walk above the noisy sea. Occasionally they would shout remarks to the infuriating couple in front but neither Andrew nor Lucy seemed to be aware of their existence.

One part of Andrew Harvey’s brain seemed to be looking on at himself in cynical amusement. He could not have fallen in love so quickly. One simply did not. The girl was remarkably beautiful, but, then, he had met many beauties. He would keep his head and enjoy a flirtation, and if she seemed to be getting at all serious about him, he would fade away in his usual practiced manner.

All too soon the walk broadened out allowing the other couple to come abreast. Lucy watched Didi’s expressive little face as the girl looked at Andrew Harvey. What a mixture it was of love and passion and jealousy and anger. Lucy shivered. Perhaps she would become like that herself. Perhaps she would be flirted with for a little length of time until the viscount was no longer amused. She must be very careful. They had reached the Hôtel du Nord. She abruptly withdrew her hand and bid the startled party a curt good-day.