False Colours

by Georgette Heyer

  Although Kit had been willing enough to concede that Cosmo might entertain the Dowager by playing card-games with her, he had been quite unable to picture her enduring with even the appearance of complaisance his aunt’s flat platitudes. Great was his astonishment, therefore, when, following his uncle and cousin into the drawing-room some time later, he found these two ladies seated side by side on the sofa, and engaged in interested converse. Since Lady Denville had had a card-table set up at the far end of the long room, and lost no time in sweeping the three younger members of the party to it, to play, under her aegis, such frivolous games as suggested themselves to her, it was not until he paid his mama a goodnight visit that Kit learned the reason for this sudden and extraordinary friendship. Nothing, declared her ladyship, had ever been more fortunate! Poor Emma, during the course of a very boring anecdote, had let fall a Name, which had instantly made Lady Stavely prick up her ears. After exhaustive discussion, which had appeared to Lady Denville to range over most of the noble houses in the country, and a fair proportion of the landed gentry, it had been established, to both ladies’ satisfaction, that they were in some way related.

  ‘But pray don’t ask me how, dearest!’ begged Lady Denville. ‘I can’t tell you how many cousins, and marriages, and mere connexions were dragged in: you cannot conceive how tedious! But it has led to that terrible old woman’s taking a fancy to Emma, and I have every hope that we shall be able to fob her off on to your aunt!’

  Ten

  Lady Denville’s hope was to some extent realized. Either because of the remote relationship between herself and Mrs Cliffe, or because the Dowager perceived in that biddable lady an excellent substitute for her daughter Clara, she chose to honour her with her approval, and lost no time in inducting her into the duties of companion-in-chief. Somewhat to Lady Denville’s surprise, Poor Emma was perfectly willing to assume these. They were not, in fact, as arduous as might have been supposed, since the Dowager never left her bedchamber till noon, and admitted no one into it except her abigail; retired to it two hours before dinner; and spent the evening playing whist, or piquet, or backgammon with such members of the party as she considered to be worthy opponents, or partners. Mrs Cliffe was not numbered amongst these; and until the arrival of Sir Bonamy Ripple, three days after the rest of the guests had assembled, it was Kit who occupied the fourth place at the whist-table. He was a sound, if not a brilliant player, and once he had grasped the difference between long whist, which the Dowager preferred, and short, to which, as a member of the younger generation, he was accustomed, she had no serious fault to find with him. But as Lady Denville’s play was divided between flashes of brilliance, and strange lapses (due, as she unacceptably explained to the Dowager, to her having been thinking of something else at just that moment), it was soon tacitly decided that she and her son should be perpetual partners against the Dowager and Cosmo Cliffe.

  Emma’s new duties, therefore, consisted merely of bearing the Dowager company during her unoccupied moments, and going with her, every fine afternoon, for a sedate drive round the neighbouring countryside; and as this regimen exactly suited her disposition no one felt her to be an object for compassion.

  Ambrose, still fired with the hope of becoming a notable shot, spent every morning with the head gamekeeper, a longsuffering individual, who confided to Kit that if he succeeded in teaching Mr Ambrose to hit a barn-door at a range of twelve yards it would be more than he bargained for.

  This, since Cosmo spent the better part of the day either perusing the London papers in the library, or prowling about the estate, asking shrewd questions of bailiffs and farmers, and reporting detected extravagance to Kit, left Kit with the charge of entertaining Miss Stavely. On sunny days, they rode together, or played at battledore and shuttlecock; when it rained they played billiards, or sat in comfortable talk; once, at her request, he took her to the long picture-gallery, regaling her with an irreverent history of his ancestors, many of whose portraits lined the walls. She entered into the spirit of this, and capped with aplomb his top-lofty boast of a recusant priest (in the collateral) with an account of the Stavely who had blotted the escutcheon by having journeyed so far into Dun territory that he had seen nothing for it but to take to the High Toby.

  Kit, acknowledging the superior distinction of this anecdote, wished to know if this enterprising scion had succeeded in making his fortune; but Miss Stavely informed him, with what he told her was odious pretension, that it was generally believed that her interesting forebear had perished on the scaffold, under the cognomen of Gentleman Dick.

  ‘That’s good,’ he admitted. ‘But take a look at old Ginger hackle here! One of my great-great-uncles, and said to have murdered his first wife. Here she is, beside him!’

  ‘Well,’ said Cressy, subjecting the portrait of a languishing female to a thoughtful scrutiny, ‘I shouldn’t wonder at it if he did. Anyone can see that she was one of those complaining women, forever having the vapours, or dissolving into floods of tears. And I have little doubt that that red head of his denotes an uncertain temper.’

  But the picture which held Miss Stavely’s interest longest was the Hoppner portrait of the Fancot twins, executed when they were schoolboys. ‘How very alike you are!’ she remarked, studying more closely than Kit appreciated what was held to have been one of Hoppner’s best likenesses. ‘There is a difference, when one looks more particularly into it. Your hair is brighter, and your brother is a trifle taller than you are. Something in the expressions, too. . . ’

  ‘Do you think so? The seeming difference in height is merely the way in which we were posed, I fancy. As for the expression, the picture was never thought to be one of Hoppner’s happier works,’ said Kit, ruthlessly sacrificing the deceased artist’s reputation. ‘Come and look at Lawrence’s portrait of my mother!’

  She allowed herself to be drawn onward; but she cast another glance at the Hoppner before she left the gallery, and one surreptitious but searching one at Kit’s profile. She said nothing, however, either then, or rather later, when the Dowager delivered herself of the opinion that Lord Brumby had wronged his elder nephew.

  The Dowager was inclined to be indignant with his lordship. ‘Depend upon it, Cressy, he’s getting to be spiteful! It’s often so with old bachelors. He dotes on the other boy, and is jealous of young Denville in consequence!’

  ‘He said nothing to Papa about Denville that was in the least spiteful, ma’am,’ Cressy ventured to interpolate. ‘Indeed, he told Papa that although Denville had been a little wild he believed that nothing more than a – a suitable marriage was wanting to make him –’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense!’ exclaimed the Dowager, her eyes snapping. ‘Henry Brumby’s an old woman, and so I shall tell him! There’s nothing of the profligate about the boy, and never was! I daresay he’s had his adventures: why not? But I cut my wisdoms long before Brumby cut his, and if he thinks I don’t know the signs of a loose-screw he very much mistakes the matter! There ain’t one to be seen in Denville – and that you may believe, girl! I like him. Do you?’

  This sudden question slightly discomposed Cressy, but upon being adjured to answer it, she said, blushing a little: ‘Yes, I do. Much – much better than I did at the outset. But –’

  ‘But what?’ demanded the Dowager, as Cressy hesitated.

  Cressy shook her head. ‘Nothing, ma’am! That is – no, nothing!’

  The Dowager looked narrowly at her, but said, after a moment: ‘Early days yet! I don’t mean to press you, so I’ll say no more. You ain’t a simpering miss, so you won’t underrate the advantages of this match. You know as well as I do that Denville’s a matrimonial prize: time was when I should have thought more of that than I do today. So was his father, and much good did it do silly little Amabel Cliffe when she caught him!’ She sat ruminating for a moment, and then abruptly changed the subject, saying: ‘I collect that Bonamy Ripple is coming to jo
in us tomorrow. What a bag-pudding! However, I shall be glad to see him, for he plays a good game of whist, and knows all the latest on-dits.’ She paused again, before adding, with the utmost reluctance: ‘I’ll say this for Amabel! – to be able to drag Ripple away from Brighton at this season is something indeed!’

  But when Sir Bonamy lowered himself, with the assistance of two muscular footmen, from his travelling carriage next day no one would have supposed from his demeanour that the smallest force had been necessary to bring him away from the Pavilion to the seclusion of Ravenhurst. Radiating good-humour, he grasped Kit’s hand with one of his own pudgy ones, and declared that this was ‘something like!’ Wheezing only a very little from the exertion of descending from the carriage, he stood looking about him, a not unimposing, if preposterous figure, in the nattiest of country raiment, with a voluminous drab driving coat hanging open from his shoulders, and a shaggy, low-crowned beaver set rakishly askew over his curled and pomaded locks. ‘Very agreeable!’ he pronounced. ‘Very pleasing prospect! Do you know, my boy, I’ve never seen it in the summer before? Excellent! just the thing for recruiting nature! I feel as fresh as a nosegay already.’

  Kit’s eyes twinkled. ‘I’m happy to welcome you here, sir!’

  Sir Bonamy’s little round eyes stared at him for an unwinking moment. ‘Much obliged to you! Very prettily said!’

  Recalling belatedly that his twin barely tolerated their mama’s most devoted admirer, Kit skated smoothly over this, saying: ‘But I should warn you that the exigencies of country life may perhaps put you quite out of frame! We dine at six, sir!’

  ‘No need to warn me,’ Sir Bonamy said, slowly mounting the shallow steps. ‘I know the country habit! But you have a very good cook, and if one partakes of only a morsel by way of a nuncheon one is ready for one’s dinner by six o’clock – with a mere snack for supper.’

  ‘Oh, we shall offer you more than a snack!’ promised Kit. ‘You will certainly need a supporting meal after an evening spent in playing whist with the Dowager Lady Stavely!’

  ‘So that’s it, is it?’ said Sir Bonamy, pausing at the top of the steps to get his breath back. His large frame was shaken by a chuckle. ‘Now I know why you’re happy to welcome me! Quite right! quite right! you leave the old lady to me! Ah!’

  This last exclamation was evoked by the emergence from the house of his hostess, who gave him both her hands, and an embracing smile, saying: ‘Dear Bonamy, I knew I might depend upon you! Infamous to have invited you to such a dreadful party, but I needed you!’

  Kissing her hands, and continuing to hold them in his, Sir Bonamy said fondly: ‘Now, my pretty – ! You know how happy it makes me to hear that! Ay, and you should know I couldn’t think any party dreadful which you grace! Anything I can do to oblige you I’ll do with alacrity. Just been telling Evelyn to leave Cornelia Stavely to me!’

  ‘Yes, but there is a worse thing!’ disclosed her ladyship. ‘I know I should have divulged it to you before, but I dared not, for fear you should refuse to come.’

  ‘No, no!’ he replied, releasing one of her hands so that he could pat the other. ‘Nothing could have made me do so! Not even if you had invited the greatest bore in the country!’

  ‘Well, that’s just what I have done,’ she said candidly. ‘It’s Cosmo!’

  ‘Your brother Cosmo?’ he asked.

  ‘And his wife, and his son!’ she said, making a clean breast of it.

  ‘Well, well!’ he said tolerantly. ‘I’m not acquainted with them, and I daresay Cliffe won’t fidget me very much. A dull dog, but there! No need to pay any heed to him, after all!’

  ‘I knew I might depend on you!’ said Lady Denville, withdrawing her hand from his, and tucking it into his arm. ‘Now you shall come into my own drawing-room, and drink a glass of wine, while your man unpacks your trunks, and tell me all the latest crim. con. stories!’

  Kit, realizing that his presence was unwanted, went off to look for Miss Stavely. He found her, after an extensive search, in the Long Drawing-room, engaged in arranging fresh flowers in two of his mama’s new holders; and instantly demanded to be told who had set her to this task.

  ‘No one,’ she answered, her attention fixed on the exact placing of a tall lily. ‘I asked Lady Denville if I might do it for her, and she gave me leave – so, you see, I am not meddling, or being odiously encroaching!’

  ‘You know that’s not what I meant. But you can’t want to busy yourself with such matters! Mama assures me that there is nothing more exhausting.’

  She laughed. ‘Yes, so she told me. I don’t find it anything but agreeable, however. Particularly here, where you have such a profusion of flowers. I’ve enjoyed myself uncommonly this morning, picking and choosing amongst them.’

  ‘I’m glad, but I wish you will leave one of the servants to finish the bowls!’

  ‘Certainly not! Why?’

  ‘To ride with me,’ he said, in a coaxing tone. ‘It’s not so hot today – and Mama’s mare needs exercise!’

  ‘Oh, dear!’ she sighed. ‘That’s tempting, but – No, I must not! The invitation cards have come from Brighton, and I am going to help Lady Denville to send them out for the Public Day. She has settled to hold it next week, so there’s no time to be lost.’

  He was just about to offer his services when he remembered that his handwriting was very different from Evelyn’s scrawl. He bit the words back, all at once realizing that a fresh danger threatened him. Sooner or later, he thought, one of his guests would ask him for a frank. He could write the one word, Denville, in a passable imitation of Evelyn’s fist; but he felt it would be beyond his power to transcribe a full name and address. His father, rigidly meticulous, had always done so; he wondered if every peer and Member of Parliament adhered so strictly to the letter of the law. He rather fancied that most of them distributed their franks very freely; on the other hand he had an uneasy recollection of having read in some newspaper that franks were being subjected to close scrutiny by the Post Office, in an attempt to check the abuse of this privilege. He could only hope that Evelyn’s signature was not yet well-known to any local postmaster; and decide that if the worst befell he would trade on the illegibility of Evelyn’s writing, recommending the seeker after a frank to superscribe the letter himself, to ensure its safe arrival.

  Cressy stood back, the better to survey her handiwork. ‘I hope Lady Denville will like it,’ she said. ‘I think it is quite tolerable, don’t you?’

  ‘Just passable!’ he said gravely.

  She laughed. ‘Let me tell you, sir, that I preen myself a little on my flower arrangements!’

  ‘I can see that you do. If you won’t ride with me, will you take a turn about the gardens with me?’

  She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, and picked up her simple straw bergère hat. ‘Yes, that would be very agreeable – for half-an-hour?’

  He nodded. They went out together, and passed down the terrace steps on to the lawn, and across it to a succession of shallow terraces backed by wide flower-borders on one side, and low stone parapets on the other. Cressy sighed. ‘What a pity it is that dear Godmama doesn’t care for the country! It is so beautiful here!’

  ‘No, Mama finds it a dead bore, unless the house is filled with entertaining guests.’ He hesitated. ‘Are you very fond of the country, Cressy?’

  She considered the matter, wrinkling her brow in the way he had come to think charming. Then she said, with the flicker of a smile: ‘That’s a home question! When I’m here, and in such delightful weather, I wonder how I can support life in London. But the melancholy suspicion occurs to me that I am, au fond, a town-creature!’ She glanced round at him, arching her brows quizzically. ‘Does that cast you down? I recall that you told me, at that first encounter, that if you knew yourself to be master here you would choose to spend all but the spring months at Ravenhurst,
or in Leicestershire. Don’t be alarmed! I promise you I won’t repine!’

  He said nothing for a moment, for it flashed across his mind that her words had supplied him with the answer to the problem which had been troubling him. Evelyn, a far keener sportsman than himself, had always loved Ravenhurst for the congenial amusements it offered; and, perhaps from a natural aptitude for the life of a country landowner, perhaps because he had known all his life that it would one day be his own, he had taken much more interest in the management of the estates than had his twin. But his impetuous, autocratic temper made it impossible for him to bear with equanimity the humiliation of being master only in name; and that was why he had, apparently, plunged into the wild career of a regular dash, or Bond Street Spark. Kit could perceive, dispassionately, that this was folly, but he accepted it without criticism because it was a part of Evelyn, neither to be censured nor amended. The only thought in his head was that by hedge or by stile the Trust must be brought to an end. That Miss Stavely personified neither of these homely objects was a thought which had entered his head several days previously, and had taken such firm root there that it had swiftly become something to be taken for granted.