“—are the Hon. Cosmo and Mrs Cliffe, and Ambrose Cliffe, all of whom their host wishes otherwhere!”
“I don’t think that was precisely how he feels the notice should have been phrased,” she said, in a considering tone.
He laughed. “I’m very sure it’s not! Feels he has been slighted does he? What the deuce does it matter to him? You’d think he must be some trumped up April-squire, wouldn’t you?”
“I dare say it may come of his being a younger son.”
“No, that it does not!” he exclaimed, revolted.
She glanced speculatively at him. “A younger son jealous of his elder brother’s position, and one who has made no mark in the world,” she amended.
He had by this time recollected himself, and merely said: “No, it comes from having a maggoty disposition and a vast quantity of self-importance.”
She told him that he was too severe, and passed easily to an indifferent subject. They continued chatting companion-ably on a variety of topics until Cressy, hearing the stable-clock strike the hour, remembered her promise to her hostess, and was conscience-smitten by the realization that she must have kept her waiting for at least twenty minutes. This, she exclaimed, was the height of bad manners; and despite all Kit’s amused assurances that his mother was more likely to have forgotten that she had planned to send out her invitation cards that morning than to complain of her young guest’s want of conduct, she insisted on hastening back to the house. Kit went with her, offering her handsome odds against the chance that his mother would be found, as expected, in her own drawing-room. But she was found there, though with no thought of directing invitations in her head. She was standing in front of the gilded mirror hanging above the fireplace, surveying, with every sign of disapprobation, her own delightful reflection. A litter of crumpled wrapping-paper on the floor, an open box on the table, with a necklace composed of fine topazes set in filigree lying beside it, indicated that she had received a valuable package from London; sent, possibly, and at a moderate charge, through the medium of the Newhaven Mailcoach, and deposited, with the post, at the receiving office in Nutley; and more probably, as Kit knew, by a special messenger, at large cost.
It was difficult to perceive why Lady Denville was dissatisfied with her appearance, for she was attired in an underdress of deep gold, which matched her hair, veiled by a tunic of pale muslin, and the effect was at once dashing, and extremely becoming, but she speedily explained the matter. “Was there anything ever more provoking?” she demanded. “I purchased these horrid beads, because it struck me that they were just the thing to wear with this dress, and I even had them restrung to the exact length I required, and now I don’t like them at all! In fact, I think them hideous!”
“Oh, no, no!” exclaimed Cressy. “The most beautiful clear amber! How can you call them hideous, ma’am? You look charmingly!”
“No, Cressy, I do not look charmingly!” said her ladyship firmly. “I don’t know how it is, but no matter how dear they may be, there is something about beads which makes one look shabby-genteel. If I were to wear these, even Emma would think I bought made-up clothes in Cranbourne Alley!”
This seemed an unlikely contingency, but neither Kit nor Cressy ventured to say so. Kit, picking up the topaz necklace, asked, with a sinking heart, if she had bought it at the same time.
“Oh, no, dearest! I bought that long before!” she replied, elevating his spirits for a brief moment. “Weeks ago, when I chose the silk for this underdress! But you may see for yourself that the stones are made to look insipid, worn with this particular shade of yellow. I was afraid they would, but it is such a pretty necklace that I don’t regret having purchased it. If I had some earrings made to match it, I could wear it with a pale yellow evening gown, couldn’t I? But those amber beads I will not wear!”
“No, don’t!” said Kit. “Send them back to the jeweller!”
She considered this suggestion, but decided against it. “No, I have a better notion! I shall give them to your cousin Kate! I don’t suppose you remember her, but she is Baverstock’s second daughter, and never has anything pretty to wear, because your odious Aunt Amelia won’t spend a groat more than she need on her until she has snabbled a husband for Maria—which I shouldn’t think she will ever do, for she’s a plain girl, and has been out for three Seasons already.” She unclasped the amber string, and laid it aside, and said, smiling brilliantly upon her audience: “So it turns out to be for the best, after all, and I must wear my pearls, until I find just what I have in mind! Did you want me particularly, my dears?”
“What did I tell you?” asked Kit, mocking Cressy. “No, Mama: Cressy would have it that it was you who wanted her, to direct invitations for you.”
“I knew there was something I must attend to this morning!” said her ladyship, pleased with this feat of memory. “Oh, dear, what a dead bore it is! I can’t think why I didn’t bring Mrs Woodbury with me, except, of course, that I shouldn’t have known what to do with her here, for one couldn’t expect her to dine in the housekeeper’s room, precisely, and yet—But she is an excellent person, and writes all the invitations, and answers letters for me, and never forgets to remind me of the things I’ve arranged to do!”
Her eyes dancing, Cressy said: “Never mind, ma’am! Only tell me the various directions, and I’ll engage to be quite as excellent a secretary! You made out a list, didn’t you, of all the people you wished to invite?”
“So I did! Not that I wish to invite any of them, because of all the tedious things imaginable Public Days are the worst! However, it would be very uncivil not to hold one, so we must make the best of it. Dear Cressy, how fortunate that you should have remembered that I made up that list! We have only to discover where I put it, and everything will be very simply accomplished—though I hope you don’t think that I mean to let you do more than assist me! I wonder where I did put that list? Not in a safe place, for that is always fatal. Dearest K—kindest Evelyn!” she said, correcting herself with aplomb, “perhaps, if you are not engaged elsewhere, you could direct some of the cards for me!”
“Nothing would afford me greater pleasure, love!” he replied, wondering how long it would be before his irresponsible parent unwittingly exposed him. “But I am engaged elsewhere, and you know well that only you and Kit seem to be able to decipher my handwriting!”
11
The rest of the day passed without untoward incident. Cressy, assisted spasmodically by Lady Denville, directed the invitation cards; Sir Bonamy and Cosmo, after consuming a substantial nuncheon, slept stertorously in the library all the afternoon, their handkerchiefs spread over their faces; the Dowager enjoyed her usual drive with Mrs Cliffe; and Kit, finding his young cousin idling disconsolately in one of the saloons, ruthlessly bore him off for an inspection of the stables, and a tramp across the fields to the stud-farm, where one of my lord’s brood mares had the day before given birth to a promising colt.
The evening was enlivened by the presence of the Squire, Sir John Thatcham, with his lady, and his two eldest offspring: Mr Edward Thatcham, just down from his second year at Cambridge; and Miss Anne, a lively girl, who had gratified her well-wishers by retiring from her first modest Season with a very respectable parti to her credit.
It might have been supposed that a party which included such ill-assorted persons as the Dowager, Sir John and Lady Thatcham, and Sir Bonamy Ripple was foredoomed to failure, for the Dowager, who arrogated to herself an old lady’s privilege of being as uncivil as she chose to anyone whom she considered to be a bore, could almost certainly be depended on to snub the Thatchams; and Sir Bonamy was too much the idle man of fashion to meet with Sir John’s approval. But, in the event, and due, as Cressy recognized with deep respect, to Lady Denville’s unmatched qualities as a hostess, the party was very successful, the only member of it to feel dissatisfaction being Cosmo, who pouted a good deal when he discovered that his sister had excluded him from the whist-table, set up for the Dowager’s edification in
a small saloon leading from the Long Drawing-room. Having elicited the information that the Thatchams were very fond of whist, but liked to play together, Lady Denville settled them at the table with the Dowager and Sir Bonamy. No one could have guessed from Sir Bonamy’s good-humoured demeanour that he was in the habit of playing whist in the Duke of York’s company, for five pound points, with a pony on the rubber to make it worth while.
The rest of the party, with the single exception of Cosmo, who said that he was too old for such pastimes, gathered round a large table in the Long Drawing-room to play a number of games which the three youngest members of the party would, in their own homes, have condemned as being fit only for the schoolroom. But Lady Denville, who combined a genius for making her guests feel that she was genuinely happy to entertain them with an effervescent enjoyment of her own parties, rapidly infected the company with her own zest for such innocent pastimes as Command, Cross-Questions, and even Jack-straws. It was all very merry and informal, and when it culminated in a game of speculation Ambrose surprised everyone by displaying an unexpected aptitude for the game, making some very shrewd bids, and quite forgetting the languid air he thought it proper for a young man of mode to assume; and Cosmo, unable to bear the sight of his wife’s improvident play, drew up his chair to the table so that he could advise and instruct her.
At ten o’clock, the Dowager, who had been behaving with great energy and acumen, winning several shillings, and sharply censuring Sir Bonamy for what she considered faults of play, suddenly assumed the appearance of extreme decrepitude, and broke up the game, saying that she was tired, and must go to bed. As soon as she emerged from the saloon, leaning on Sir Bonamy’s arm, Lady Denville rose from the table, and went towards her, saying in her pretty, caressing voice: “Going to retire now, ma’am? I hope you are not being driven away by the noise we have been making!”
“No, I’ve had a very agreeable evening,” replied the Dowager graciously. “No need to leave your game on my account!” She nodded at Cressy. “Stay where you are, child! I can see you’re enjoying yourself, and I don’t want you.”
“Enjoying myself! Nothing of the sort, Grandmama! I’ve fallen amongst sharks, and have lost my entire fortune! What Mr Ambrose Cliffe hasn’t robbed me of has passed into Denville’s possession: I wonder that you should abandon me to such a hard-bargaining pair!” said Cressy gaily.
“I dare say you’ll come about,” said the Dowager. She allowed Lady Denville to take Sir Bonamy’s place, and nodded generally. “I’ll bid you all goodnight. Happy to have made your acquaintance, Lady Thatcham: you, play your cards very tolerably—very tolerably indeed!” She then withdrew, her ebony cane gripped in one claw-like hand, the other tucked in Lady Denville’s arm. She favoured Kit, who was holding open the door for her, with a jocular command not to knock Cressy into horse-nails, but said somewhat snappishly to Lady Denville, as they went slowly along the broad corridor, that she didn’t know why she troubled to escort her to her bedchamber.
“Oh, it isn’t a trouble,” said Lady Denville. “I like to go with you, ma’am, to be quite sure that you have everything just as you prefer it. One never knows that they won’t have sent up your hot milk with horrid pieces of skin in it, or warmed the bed far too early!”
“Lord, Amabel, my woman takes good care of that!” said the Dowager scornfully. She added, in a grudging tone: “Not but what you’re a kind creature—and that I never denied!” She proceeded for some way in silence, but when the upper hall was reached, said suddenly: “That was a good notion of yours, to set the young people to playing silly games. It ain’t often I’ve seen that granddaughter of mine in such a glow of spirits. It’s little enough fun she gets at home.”
“Dear Cressy! I wish you might have heard some of her drolleries! She had us all in whoops, and even succeeded in captivating that dismal nephew of mine!”
The Dowager uttered a crack of mirth. “Him! I’ve no patience with whipstraws, playing off the airs of exquisites.” She paused outside the door of her bedroom. “I’ll tell you this, though, Amabel! I like your son.”
“Thank you!” Lady Denville said. Tears sparkled in her eyes. “No one—no one!—was ever blessed with two such sons as mine!”
“Now, don’t be a pea goose!” said the Dowager bracingly. “I should like to know what there is to cry about in that! I shall be very well satisfied if Cressy likes him well enough to marry him, for he’ll make her the kind of husband most of us wish for, and few of us have the good fortune to catch. Now, you be off, for whatever the. rest of ’em want you may depend upon it that Ripple’s thinking of nothing but his supper!”
Whatever secret longings Sir Bonamy may have been cherishing, he was far too well-mannered to allow these to appear. Lady Denville found him chatting urbanely with Lady Thatcham, who, under his benign influence, was fast coming to the conclusion that her husband’s freely-expressed contempt of him (and every other member of the Prince Regent’s set) was unjust. The game of speculation was coming to an end, with Cressy recovering some of her losses: a circumstance which she owed to the intervention of Cosmo, who had moved round the table to sit at her elbow. The stakes might be infinitesimal, but Cosmo could not bear to see her squandering her counters from what he called want of judgement, and what his disrespectful nephew later described as a want of huckstering instinct.
Informality was maintained at supper, for which lavish repast the Thatchams, in spite of demurring that a seven-mile drive lay before them, were persuaded to remain at Ravenhurst, but it did not extend to the dishes provided by Mr Dawlish, which ranged from lobsters to a succulent array of tarts, jellies and creams, upon which the younger members of the party regaled themselves with unabashed greediness. The Thatchams took their leave, Mr Edward Thatcham, gazing with youthful admiration at his hostess, informing her that he had spent the jolliest evening, and reverently kissing her hand. Lady Denville took her sister-in-law and Cressy up to bed; and Kit returned to the supper-room, where the three remaining gentlemen were sitting amongst the broken meats: Ambrose in the sulks, because his father had reproved him for allowing Kit to give him a glass of Fine Old Cognac; Cosmo delivering himself of a monologue, addressed to Sir Bonamy; and Sir Bonamy savouring the bouquet of his brandy, and nodding occasionally from an amiable wish to lead Cosmo into believing that he was attending to him. He turned his little round eyes towards Kit, and said: “Excellent supper! Very agreeable evening!”
“Thank you, sir! But the credit goes to my mother,” said Kit.
“Very true! Very true! Wonderful woman! Never anyone like her, my boy!” said Sir Bonamy, gustily sighing. He heaved himself round in his chair, groping in his pocket for his snuff-box. “In such high beauty, too! Doesn’t look a day older than when I first clapped eyes on her. Before your time, that was!”
Kit, recalling one of Fimber’s repeated admonitions, produced the snuff-box which had been placed by that worthy in his own pocket, opened it, and offered it to Sir Bonamy, saying: “Will you try some of my sort, sir?”
He knew immediately that in some way he had erred. Sir Bonamy’s unnervingly expressionless gaze remained riveted to the snuff-box for several seconds, before travelling upwards to his face. It remained fixed for several more seconds, but Sir Bonamy only said: “A pretty box, that. Purchased it in Paris, didn’t you, when you went there to meet your brother once?”
“I believe I did,” acknowledged Kit, not a muscle quivering in his face.
Sir Bonamy helped himself to a pinch. “One of Bernier’s,” he said. “You showed it to me when you came home.”
He had, apparently, no further observations to make; but when, much later, he visited Kit in the huge room which was traditionally the bedchamber occupied by the Earls of Denville, Kit’s dismay was not attended by surprise. Fimber had just eased him out of his coat; but Sir Bonamy had already escaped from the restriction of his corsets, and his rigidly starched shirt-points, and was attired in a dressing-gown of thick brocade, of such rich co
louring and such voluminous cut that his appearance, at all times impressive, was almost overpowering. “Came to have a word with you!” he announced.
Fimber, his face wooden, withdrew into the dressing-room; and Kit, feeling that his sheet-anchor had vanished, said: “Why, certainly, sir! Is something amiss?”
“That snuff of yours is dry!” said Sir Bonamy, staring very hard at him.
“Good God, sir, is it? I do most humbly beg your pardon!”
“I’ll drop a word of warning in your ear, my boy!” said Sir Bonamy, ignoring this interpolation. “I don’t know what sort of wheedle you’re trying to cut, and I don’t ask you to tell me, because it’s no affair of mine, but if you want to bamboozle people into thinking you’re young Denville, don’t offer ’em dry snuff, and don’t use two hands to open your box!”
“So that was it!” said Kit. “I was afraid I had betrayed myself, but I didn’t know how!”
“Damme, Kit, Evelyn set himself to copy Brummell’s way of handling a snuff-box! One hand only, and no more than a flick of the thumb-nail to open it! You remember that!”
“I will, sir,” Kit promised. “Thank you! You must feel that I owe you an explanation—”
Sir Bonamy checked him with an upraised hand. “No, I don’t!” he said hastily. “I’ve told you already it’s no affair of mine! I’d as lief it wasn’t, too, because it looks to me like a damned havey-cavey business.”
“It isn’t quite as havey-cavey as it must seem,” Kit told him.
“If it’s half as havey-cavey as it seems I don’t want to have anything to do with it!” replied Sir Bonamy, not mincing matters. “And from what I know of you and Evelyn—not that I came here to pull a crow with you, for I didn’t! What’s more, you won’t goad me into it, my boy, so don’t think it! If Evelyn hasn’t been able to wind me up in all the years he’s been trying to do it, it stands to reason you can’t.”
False Colours Page 16