by Dorothy Mack
If the level of the conversation and wit displayed at table had not attained the heights recorded by the late Dr. Johnson and his intimates, it had at least transcended personalities on occasion to roam about the realm of ideas. By the time she led the female exodus into the drawing room, Vicky considered that she had cause for self-congratulation, and that pleasant feeling lasted for the few minutes it took her to realise that the two elder ladies were circling each other warily.
Partially to give her aunt an opportunity to converse with Sir Hugh, whom she hadn’t met before tonight, and partially to keep Lady Lanscomb’s jealousy unaroused on Elaine’s behalf, Vicky had seated Sir Hugh on Lady Honoria’s right hand and as far away from herself as possible. She had thought this a brilliant stroke at the time, but obviously it hadn’t prevented Lady Honoria from getting the glimmer of an idea with regard to her niece and this newest acquaintance if Vicky were correctly interpreting the drift of her questions and comments to Lady Lanscomb. This lady in her turn was intent upon discovering what, if anything, was between her hostess and Lord Ellerby. It was time to do some quick revising of her plans for the evening’s entertainment unless she wished to chance open hostilities before the tea tray was brought in. Both ladies were addicted to whist, so without a qualm she sacrificed Sir Hugh and herself to the goal of keeping them too much occupied for idle conversation. This left Mr. Massingham and Lord Ellerby to entertain the girls. It would do nothing to forward Elaine’s cause, she conceded with a shrug, but Rome hadn’t been built in a day.
The gentlemen cooperated nicely by curtailing their port-drinking session to rejoin the ladies in short order. Her proposal to make up a table for whist if anyone should care for cards produced an identical gleam in the eyes of the elder ladies and a flatteringly quick offer from Sir Hugh to make a fourth.
“That leaves you young people to amuse yourselves with round games or music, as Drucilla does not play cards.”
Her bright smiling look casually roved their faces, then passed swiftly over that of Mr. Massingham, which had taken on a startled, somewhat affronted look at being classed with the youngsters. She preserved her countenance with difficulty and paused expectantly in her role of anxious hostess.
“Do you not care for cards, Miss Hedgeley?”
Drucilla looked a little wistfully at Miss Fairchild. “I was never permitted to learn how to play cards, but you must not mind me. I shall enjoy watching if you should choose to play.”
“But we could teach you; nothing could be simpler!” declared Miss Fairchild generously.
Vicky could have hugged her. The gentlemen were now neatly trapped, the older ladies would be able to channel their aggression into an acceptable activity, and as an additional bonus, the duet singing had been avoided for the present.
Any pangs of conscience she might have suffered for such a high-handed disposal of her guests’ time were thoroughly quietened by the subsequent sounds of merriment and unmistakable enjoyment emanating from the table at the other end of the room. These noises became almost raucous as Drucilla’s quick wit and ability to concentrate were severely tested by her teachers, who evidently thought she might as well learn a half-dozen popular games at one sitting.
All was strictly business and the conversation was kept to a minimum at the whist table, but it would not be too extravagant to claim that the enjoyment was no less despite the lack of vocal expression. In cutting for partners the two widows had wound up pitted against each other, which just suited their inclinations. Sir Hugh, partnering Lady Honoria, and Vicky, struggling to hold up her end as his mother’s partner, were continually pressed to display every ounce of skill they possessed in the hard-fought contest that ensued. To sweeten his sacrifice, the gentleman had the exquisite and unalloyed pleasure of gazing upon his opponent’s lovely profile and engaging her attention in snippets whenever circumstances permitted. The object of his admiration, on the other hand, was unable to derive any other satisfaction than that which accompanied the knowledge that the evening was saved. The cumulative effect of Sir Hugh’s unsought admiration and his mother’s silent resentment of it on those occasions when her attention strayed from the cards was such as to keep Vicky suspended in a state of acute discomfort that she must perpetually exert herself to disguise.
The eventual arrival of the tea tray secured her release and she rose with alacrity, leaving the others to add up the totals while she directed Cavanaugh in the disposition of the refreshments. As everyone drifted back toward the centre of the room, Mr. Massingham’s sapient eye ran over her rather limp form stationed behind the teapot.
“You appear to be in some need of a restorative, Miss Seymour. Did you find yourself at a stand amongst such accomplished players?”
The hint of satisfaction in his tone had a bracing effect on Vicky, but this was negated in the next moment by Lady Lanscomb, who, mellowed by a close win, conceded magnanimously, “Miss Seymour does not play at all badly. I have always held that whist is a game for the mature. No matter their natural aptitude for cards, the very young haven’t the head for whist. Elaine, for example, shows great promise, but it will be many years before she will play as well as Miss Seymour.”
Having dexterously succeeded in paying a compliment and settling a score at one and the same time, Lady Lanscomb navigated her way into a corner of the plush sofa and directed a sweet smile at her hostess.
“It was a pleasure playing with someone of your calibre, ma’am,” Vicky said smoothly before the attendant pause could stretch beyond what was comfortable. “How do you take your tea?” She gave the task of preparing it her careful attention and presented the cup for delivery to Mr. Massingham, who appeared as dumbfounded as a child who has just been bitten by his pet dog. At another time, she would have applauded something that could disconcert the abominable Mr. Massingham, but now there was a hint of warning in her bright voice as she declared that she would continue to make use of his services to present the next cup to her aunt.
“And then you may be dismissed with thanks, sir, for I know my aunt is most anxious to have some speech with you after so many years. I shall enlist Lord Ellerby’s assistance for the rest.”
Mr. Massingham came out of his trance, took the cup, and carried out his hostess’ instructions while the soft murmur of conversation resumed. He stayed beside Lady Honoria a little apart from the others for the remainder of the visit. Nothing untoward occurred to mar the last half-hour of a very successful evening as everyone contributed to a pleasant, easy conversation. Possibly the only person whose regrets at the eventual parting were insincere was Vicky, who felt as drained as though she had worked in the fields all day. A mild elation at having pulled off a difficult feat enabled her to get through the “talking-over-the-party” session indulged in by the residents without betraying her longing for privacy and bed, but she was more than grateful when her aunt declared herself ready to retire.
Once prepared for bed, however, she discovered that her eyes refused to close. Whether due to her afternoon nap or the overstimulation of walking a social tightrope for hours, the result was that various scenes from the evening just past kept intruding into her memory when she tried to compose herself for sleep. On the whole she had been pleased with the outcome of the dinner party, but pictures of Lady Lanscomb watching her like a cat at a mousehole and bristling with ill-concealed resentment whenever her son paid her any attention caused her no little concern. If her ladyship persisted in her inimical surveillance, it could not fail to become evident to others also. The least mischievous result would be a general embarrassment. She didn’t like to speculate on the wounding effect on Miss Fairchild, to whom Vicky had taken a sincere liking. It would be surprising indeed if the incipient friendship survived. Elaine had her share of pride; her behaviour would be everything that was correct, but the tentative warm advances toward a mutual understanding would cease. Yes, Sir Hugh’s mother was becoming a problem, she thought, accompanying her troubled reflections with rhythmic poundings of
her pillow as she rearranged herself amongst the bedclothes. If Mr. Massingham, whom she had not credited with unusual sensitivity, had recognised the malevolence beneath the sweetness, then relations between the two houses would soon be jeopardised. Strangely enough, though, it wasn’t this disturbing possibility but the image of Mr. Massingham’s thunderstruck countenance that occupied her last waking moments before she drifted off to sleep with a little smile curving her lips.
CHAPTER 13
“Mr. Massingham.”
As Cavanaugh’s resonant voice reached the woman in the crimson wing-back chair, she lowered her newspaper and gazed with slightly widened eyes at the man coming toward her.
“How do you do, Mr. Massingham? Won’t you sit down?”
“Good afternoon, Miss Seymour.” He released the hand she had extended and settled into a companion chair. “You look surprised to see me, but not, I trust, unpleasantly surprised?”
She didn’t trust the gleam in those wicked black eyes, but murmured suitably and waited.
“I came to call on Lady Honoria, but Cavanaugh informs me her ladyship is resting at the moment.”
“Yes, but she will be coming down shortly to tea if you would care to wait.”
“Thank you.”
In the pause that followed, it occurred to Miss Seymour that she and Mr. Massingham had never yet conducted a purely social conversation. She wondered if he would begin with the weather.
“What were you reading?” He indicated the paper she was now folding.
“An account of the recent peace talks in Brussels. What do you think of this so-called Holy Alliance the Allies signed in September, Mr. Massingham?”
“I don’t see the need of it as far as an instrument for containing French aggression is concerned. The Quadruple Alliance of 1813 is being renewed and is more to the point.”
“Then you would agree with Castlereagh in not signing?”
“I don’t see that it makes much difference.” He shrugged. “Alexander in an evangelical mood. England will have plenty to do in getting her economy back on a peacetime basis, and so will Russia and all the Allies. I suppose there’s no harm in it.”
After a second or two, Miss Seymour suggested, “It’s now your turn to initiate a topic of conversation.”
He stared at her. “What is this, Miss Seymour? You’ve never been shy with me before.”
This sally earned him a cool little smile. “And I am not shy with you now, Mr. Massingham. I was merely observing the rules of civility in trying to conduct a conversation with you.”
He gave a bark of laughter at this and replied with an ironic inflection, “The rules of civility haven’t troubled you significantly in our previous conversations, as I recall.”
“But I am your hostess today, Mr. Massingham,” she reminded him sweetly. “Very well. I shall now ask after the health of the family at Meadowlands. I trust the drive home last night was uneventful and the ladies are not too fatigued today?”
“The drive went smoothly and the ladies are in prime twig today, or should I say they are in excellent health and spirits?”
“That would perhaps be a more socially acceptable description,” she agreed gravely.
“Speaking of Lady Lanscomb,” he began, then hesitated, a rather odd expression in the dark eyes.
When an encouraging look produced no more than a pulling in of the corners of his mouth, Vicky exclaimed archly, “Why, Mr. Massingham, can it be that you are shy? And I never guessed it!”
“Touché!”
He had smiled in just that delightful fashion once before — at Drucilla in the Green Feather — and it had caused Vicky to question briefly her reading of his character, but that had been nothing to the way it affected her when directed solely at herself. She could feel her pulses flutter and there was a ridiculous breathless quality to her voice for an instant as she prompted hurriedly, “You were saying…? About Lady Lanscomb?”
The smile was gone, and her pulse settled down to normal.
“Her ladyship is a charming woman and a wonderfully considerate hostess.”
He paused and sent a challenging look at Vicky, who replied mildly, “She is indeed.”
“Then why did she…” He stopped again. This time she did not offer to fill the pause, but merely waited with a questioning expression that snapped his black brows together.
“Don’t playact with me!” he grated impatiently. “Miss Victoria Seymour, always the perfect hostess.”
“Thank you, I do try to be.”
When his glare intensified, she abandoned her spurious affability. “Would you prefer that I emulate your manner?” she inquired dryly.
“I would prefer an honest answer!”
“But you haven’t as yet asked a question,” she pointed out with unanswerable logic.
For an instant he looked a bit nonplussed, then recollected himself and said with a sheepish air and a softened voice, “Lady Lanscomb was quite intentionally insul…” He bit off the word and substituted, “uncivil to you last night.”
“I think you are refining too much on an awkward slip of the tongue,” said Vicky easily. “She was merely trying to make a point about whist players.”
“She was trying to give the impression that you are so much older than Drucilla and Miss Fairchild as to be relegated to another category entirely.”
“And so I am much older than Drucilla and Miss Fairchild.”
“Nonsense! You cannot be a day over four-or five-and-twenty, and look eighteen,” he added, running an expert eye over her glowing complexion and the lithe, slim figure becomingly clad in a raspberry-coloured cotton gown.
She stared at him in amusement, a faint smile curving the beautiful mouth.
“I cannot help wondering why Lady Lanscomb should have taken you in dislike.”
“Do you not think you are being a trifle absurd, Mr. Massingham?” she asked coolly. “There is no reason to believe Lady Lanscomb has done so, though I am much obliged to you for your concern — and a bit surprised by it.”
Mr. Massingham’s expression had been a study in bewilderment and impatience. At this provocative addendum, he ran a restless hand through his hair and grinned disarmingly. “Well, yes, I imagine you might be, but it isn’t concern precisely, rather a rooted dislike of injustice.”
This outrageous remark served to reverse any softening in Vicky’s attitude brought on by his earlier statements, and her reply was offhand. “It seems to me that dislike is a matter of personal inclination rather than justice or injustice, but since I remain unconvinced that Lady Lanscomb has taken an unreasoning dislike to me in the first place, any discussion of the subject would be pointless, do you not agree?”
Nothing about Mr. Massingham’s dissatisfied expression bespoke agreement on any point whatever, but Lady Honoria’s entrance at that moment put an end to any further discussion. Until Drucilla and Lord Ellerby drifted in to join the others for tea, Mr. Massingham concentrated his facile charm (Vicky’s description) on Lady Honoria, and thereafter switched to Drucilla, whom he engaged in a light-hearted conversation that all but excluded the others and attracted a speculative glance from Lord Ellerby from time to time. With eight years on the social scene at her back, not to mention her father’s love of a challenge, Vicky contrived to appear totally at her ease and oblivious of any intended snub. She had the ultimate satisfaction of earning a jaundiced glare from Mr. Massingham on his departure after tea. She smiled brilliantly at him and bade him a safe journey in dulcet accents.
He had given her something to think about, however, and her thoughts were not so calm as her demeanour; in fact, they were mildly chaotic. Until their last exchange before her aunt had interrupted them, Vicky had been receiving an impression, a tentative impression, that Mr. Massingham was concerned for her. In light of his final explanation about the justice of the matter, she might perhaps dismiss her perception as a fanciful notion, except that there had been an uncharacteristic element of uncertainty, if not self
-compulsion, in his manner that had puzzled her exceedingly. However, when one considered that Mr. Massingham didn’t like her, regarded her (accurately) as an obstacle to his plans for Drucilla, one could most likely account for his manner. It must be galling to have to defend a foe. For some reason this explanation afforded her no satisfaction either, but the original incident and its aftermath were too trifling to waste thought on.
Except that she was forced to think about it later when she found herself alone with her aunt for the first time since the dinner party. Drucilla and Lord Ellerby had both gone to their rooms to change when Lady Honoria said abruptly, “The next time that irritating Lanscomb female thinks to make you the object of her poisonous tongue, I shall give her a piece of my mind, no matter how public the occasion.”
Vicky, who had found her thoughts reverting to the whole incident, started and looked up, instantly made uneasy by the martial glitter in her relative’s eye.
“What can you possibly mean, ma’am?” she asked with a fair assumption of innocent surprise.
“That’s trying it much too rare and thick, my child,” was the tart rejoinder, and Vicky marvelled anew at her ladyship’s collection of cant phrases.
“I think you are refining too much on a mere slip of the tongue,” she replied with a sense of déjà vu.
“Very well, you do not wish to discuss it. My lips are sealed, but don’t try to gammon me! I wasn’t born yesterday!” snapped Lady Honoria.
“Yes, ma’am … I mean, no, ma’am.”