Refining Felicity (15 page)

She found herself wishing that there were some young gentlemen present with whom she could flirt and chatter. She had met Lord Bremmer at the play one evening and had told him of her proposed visit to Ramillies House and he had pressed her hand and had said intensely he wished he could go with her, which was all that it should be and just how a gentleman ought to behave. But the marquess never said romantical things like that. Probably because he was so old, thought Betty, feeling waspish. Still, it was worth enduring. When she was duchess, she would set about making this barn of a place comfortable. And with these thoughts Betty whiled away the suppertime and did not bother to converse with anyone.

Felicity, on the other hand, did try. She roared politely at the duchess and then at the duke. They did not shout back. They had low, carrying voices, like trained actors. Felicity wondered wildly whether, as children, they had been taught to throw their voices so that they might converse amicably down the length of their monstrous dinner-table.

At last the duchess rose to her feet to lead the ladies to the drawing room. The orchestra packed up their instruments and followed along, to reassemble themselves outside the door of the drawing room. There was a large fire burning in the marble fireplace and the room was very warm. The walls were hung in peach-blossom cloth and the carpet was the same colour. The curtains were of rich purple silk, intermixed with peach-blossom sarsenet and trimmed with fringe, lacings, and tassels of gold-coloured silk. The furniture was covered with purple satin, woven to represent embroidery. The duchess drew Betty down on a sofa next to her and flashed a cold look at the Tribbles and Felicity, as if to warn them to keep clear.

‘Tell me, Miss Andrews,’ said the duchess, ‘how you prepare rose-water?’

Betty blinked. She belonged to the new generation who allowed the servants to do everything and never went near the still-room.

‘I do not know, your grace,’ she said, stifling a yawn and glancing at the clock.

‘But you do know how to prepare cordials and medicines?’

‘No, your grace. Mama has an excellent still-room maid.’

‘That will not answer,’ said the duchess severely. ‘You must learn. It is the first duty of every lady. I shall teach you myself.’ She raised an imperious hand and a footman came forward with several enormous ledgers, which he placed on a low table in front of them.

The duchess opened the ledger on the top of the pile and extracted a piece of paper. ‘I wish you to observe these rules, Miss Andrews.’

Betty looked dismally at a list of rules and began to read.

‘The Servants are all to dine at one o’clock before the parlour Dinner, both Upper- and Under-Servants, and to Breakfast and Sup at nine.
No hot dinners.

‘The Butler or Groom of the Chambers to see that the Servants’ Hall, and Powder Room, are cleaned and locked up every night before eleven o’clock.

‘The plate to be washed by the Still-room Maid and in the Still-room, whence the Under-Butler must fetch it.’

Betty read on through the long list, which ended up, ‘Should any objections be made to these rules,
those
persons may retire.’

‘Now,’ said the duchess, ‘I wish you to study this first housekeeping book and tell me of any economies you can suggest.’

Poor Betty felt it was like being back at school. She bent her head over the ledger and prayed that the marquess and the duke would not stay long over their wine.

‘And you, Lady Felicity,’ commanded the duchess. ‘Come here and take this other book and see what economies you can suggest.’

Felicity looked amused. ‘I would not dare, your grace,’ she said. ‘I am sure you have done all that is necessary. We are all fatigued after our journey, and you cannot possibly expect any of us to enjoy household mathematics at this hour.’

‘Quite right,’ said the duchess, looking surprised. The books were taken away just as the marquess and the duke entered the room.

Betty was now beginning to feel as out of place as the duchess had hoped she would. She envied Felicity’s easy dismissal of the household accounts but knew that she could never have brought herself to say such a thing. If only Ravenswood would press her hand or look at her with adoring eyes. But he was prosing on about fields and phosphates.

The Tribbles were talking quietly to each other. Amy was daring Effy to be the first to rise and say they must go to bed, and Effy was daring Amy. Then Amy noticed a spider climbing up a picture frame and said she thought it would reach the top in fifty seconds. Effy said a minute, and both sisters agreed the loser should propose retiring to bed to the duchess.

Amy took a watch like a turnip out of her reticule and began to count softly. The spider stopped its climb and hesitated.

‘Go on, you fool,’ roared Amy suddenly.

The others fell silent. Amy turned as red as a beetroot.

‘You said something?’ queried the duchess frostily.

‘It is very late, your grace,’ said Felicity. ‘I fear Miss Amy had fallen asleep and was having a nightmare.’

‘Then go to bed . . . all of you,’ said the duchess huffily. ‘Not you, Charles,’ she added, detaining her son.

The marquess held open the door of the drawing room for the ladies. He pressed a note into Betty’s hand.

When Betty reached her room, she opened the note and looked at it gloomily. It read, ‘Meet me on the terrace in front of the Grecian Room in an hour’s time. R.’

Betty felt tired and miserable. He should not expect her to wait up. She was exhausted. Tears filled her eyes. She wanted her mother. Felicity, now, would have known how to cope. She would no doubt send back a note saying, ‘Gone to sleep. Don’t be silly,’ or something forthright like that.

Then let Felicity cope, thought Betty maliciously. They had all been crowded in the doorway when he pressed that note into her hand. Let him think he had given it to Felicity by mistake. All Betty’s jealousy of Felicity had gone. On the journey, the marquess had barely said a word to the girl and it was obvious that not only did he have no interest in her, but that he actively disliked her.

Betty knew that Felicity had the room next to her own. Her maid came in to prepare her for bed, and as soon as the woman had finished her duties and retired, Betty darted out into the corridor and slid the note under Felicity’s door. Felicity would probably be asleep. The note would lie there until the morning. She, Betty, would tell the marquess in the morning when he asked where she had been that she had not received any note.

Felicity was not asleep. She was sitting reading when the note suddenly appeared. She read it and her eyebrows rose in amazement. Then she thought that Ravenswood was probably terrified she would tell Betty about that scene in his bedchamber and wished to be reassured. Well, she would torment him a little to pay him back for his bearish treatment of her on the journey. She had been longing to have an opportunity of telling him how much she detested him and now she had it.

The marquess had had difficulty in escaping from his parents and he was weary of defending Betty. ‘No character and no breeding,’ they had complained. As he hurried in the direction of the Grecian Room, he pulled out his watch and studied it in the light of an oil lamp. It was well over the hour. He hoped she had waited for him.

A full moon shone through the long windows of the Grecian Room, shining on Ionic columns and on the floor of Sienna marble. He opened the long window and walked out onto the terrace. The night was very quiet and still. The lawns rolled smoothly down in front of the terrace to a sheet of ornamental water. There was a scent of lilac in the air, mixed with the piny smell of the evergreens by the lake.

He waited and waited. He wondered what on earth was keeping the girl. He wanted to prove to himself that the searing passion he had felt for Felicity was only the result of a long period of celibacy. Betty Andrews was beautiful and dainty, all that a man could desire.

A dark bank of cloud covered the moon, plunging the terrace into thick darkness. He heard a soft movement behind him and swung about.

Felicity had spent some time trying to find the Grecian Room and had at last come across a little lamp boy who had directed her. She had a gauzy gold scarf wound about her hair. The marquess saw the faint glimmer of gold and took it for Betty’s blond hair.

Felicity opened her mouth to speak as he wound his arms about her waist, but he felt for her chin and pushed her face up and sank his lips into her own. The marquess’s mind dimly registered that she must be standing on something, for Betty Andrews was small in stature, but passion then clouded his reason and senses. Felicity, shocked and stunned, heard the mumbled endearments between the searing kisses and thought with a sharp stab of pure rapture that he loved her. And so she kissed him back with great enthusiasm and energy, adding fuel to the already raging fire. The increasing intimacies felt so right that all Felicity did was accommodate her throbbing body to his searching hands.

He had just prized one delectable white bosom free from its moorings in the neck of her gown and was bending his head to kiss it when Felicity sighed, ‘Oh, Charles.’

Her voice was clear and distinctive. Betty’s soft voice was marred by a slight lisp.

His hand, instead of caressing her breast, tucked it firmly back into the neckline of the gown and his head came up. At that moment the moon sailed out from behind the clouds. It was not Betty Andrews standing on some piece of masonry but Lady Felicity Vane, her eyes great dark pools in the moonlight.

‘Good God,’ said the marquess. ‘I thought you were Miss Andrews.’

The slap Felicity gave him nearly sent him flying off the terrace. He reeled and regained his balance, but she had gone.

Felicity lost her way in her flight through the great house until, tired of searching for her room and feeling sick with shame and exhausted with emotion, she curled up on a sofa in one of the saloons and went to sleep. The marquess went straight to her room, but did not find her. Instead he found his note to Betty lying open on Felicity’s toilet table.

But he was sure he had pressed it into Betty’s hand. He could not go to sleep until Felicity was found. He had behaved disgracefully. Where was she now? He wanted to ask the Tribbles for help but feared he might scandalize them. He went downstairs and back out into the grounds, searching and searching, becoming more frantic as the sky began to grow light. At last, he returned to the house and began to search through all the great rooms, which were beginning to glow red in the rising sun.

He found her in the Yellow Saloon in the west wing. She was tightly curled up on a sofa and fast asleep.

He sat down on the edge of the sofa and shook her shoulder. ‘Felicity!’

She came awake immediately and looked up at him, her eyes wide with fright and disgust.

‘I am sorry. So very, very sorry,’ he said. ‘That note was meant for Miss Andrews. My dear Lady Felicity, I would not have dreamt of . . . How came you by that note?’

‘It was pushed under my door,’ said Felicity.

‘But I pressed it into Miss Andrews’ hand as she left the drawing room!’

‘Then perhaps she knew what was in store for her,’ said Felicity.

‘What you must think of me,’ he said, burying his head in his hands.

Felicity surveyed his bent head with great irritation. For one dizzy moment on the terrace, she had thought he loved her. She must have been mad. Why should she want this pompous and overbearing man to love her?

‘Oh, go away,’ she said sharply. ‘Does no one get any sleep in this house?’

‘But, Lady Felicity . . .’

Felicity stood up and looked down at him. Her expression was haughty and he could not help feeling their roles had been reversed. ‘If you think I shall tell Miss Andrews of your behaviour, you are mistaken,’ said Felicity. ‘Now conduct me to my room.’

He rose immediately and offered his arm, which she ignored. He tried again.

‘My behaviour was terrible, Lady Felicity,’ he said in a low voice. ‘You must forgive me.’

‘We shall go on as if nothing had happened,’ said Felicity. ‘How long is this visit going to be? You have taken me away from my Season.’

‘Only a week.’

‘A week!’ echoed Felicity in a hollow voice. ‘I shall mark off the days on the wall of my room like a prisoner. I cannot understand what your parents were about to insist I and the Tribbles came too.’

‘They consider it most odd of me to reside with the Tribbles when I have a Town house of my own, or could use theirs.’

‘And how did you explain that?’

‘I have not yet had an opportunity.’

‘And what will you say when you do have an opportunity?’

‘How the devil do I know? I was sorry for the Tribbles and realized they had a difficult task with you, and so . . .’

His voice trailed away. ‘Worse and worse,’ mocked Felicity. They had reached her bedroom door. She walked inside and closed the door in his face.

* * *

The duchess did not believe people should lie in bed in the morning, eating breakfast in their rooms, and so it was a cross and sleepy party who assembled round the table in the morning room at nine o’clock.

Effy kept glancing anxiously at Felicity. The girl was too pale and had shadows under her eyes. She hoped Felicity was not going to fall ill. What if she had caught some terrible sickness and should waste away and she and Amy would be blamed for it? The coffin lay on the hearse pulled by four coal-black horses. The mutes wailed dismally. Lady Baronsheath was distraught. ‘It is all your fault, Effy Tribble,’ she cried. And so to the graveside. The earth rattled on the coffin and the wind soughed through the old elms in the churchyard.

‘Oh, it is all too much,’ cried Effy, bursting into tears.

‘What ails you, woman?’ snapped the little duchess.

‘Poor Felicity,’ sobbed Effy. ‘Died so young.’

Amy realized her sister had wandered into the grip of one of her fantasies and kicked her under the table. Effy yelped and started up and her elbow caught the teapot and sent the contents flying over the snowy cloth.

‘You silly bitch,’ howled Amy. ‘Now look what you’ve done. Oh, don’t cry, Effy,’ she added in a softer voice. ‘It’s a bastard of a teapot anyway and made to be knocked over. A pox on these newfangled things. Bad cess to them.’