The Bumblebroth

by Patricia Wynn

  Mattie's cheeks had paled with the first mention of a party, and now she spoke in a tone of panic, "She would probably love such a thing. But I don't know. Do you think we could manage it? What if no one came? What if they all came and were bored?"

  Gilly looked at her firmly. "You are a duchess, my dear. Of course, people will come, and young people are never bored when they are placed in a room all together."

  "They're not?" Mattie looked up at her and flushed. "I suppose you are right, but since I never . . . ."

  "You may take my word for it. The planning will be relatively easy. And this will be good practice for you before Pamela's presentation."

  Mattie reflected unhappily for a moment. Then she conceded finally, "Yes, it would. It would be far better to get my feet wet here than in London."

  "That's the spirit," Gilly said.

  "But— " another thought had occurred to cast her in the dumps— "it will never work. I could never persuade Barlow to help me. He will say the staff is not big enough."

  "You must insist upon it. He can always hire extra help from the village, or perhaps some of your neighbors would be willing to lend a few of their servants for the evening."

  "Do you think they would?"

  "I should think that if you make it known that the Duchess of Upavon is having a rout, and intending to invite their sons and daughters, your neighbors will be only too glad to help."

  Mattie took a shakey breath. "Yes, you're right, of course." She looked Gilly timidly in the eye and confessed, "It is simply that I never have felt much like a duchess."

  "Yes, my dear, I know." Gilly rose and came over to place a warm hand upon Mattie's shoulder. "But you are a duchess, and for Pamela's sake, you must begin to act like one."

  Mattie covered Gilly's hand with her own and nodded. "Yes. Once again, you are right."

  Inhaling deeply, she rose to her feet. "Very well. I shall give a rout. Now, what shall we do first? Do you suppose— Oh, dear!"

  "Now what?"

  "Do you think they will expect to dance? I have forgotten how, and Pamela never has been taught."

  "Then, it is time to engage a dancing master. I shall enquire about one directly."

  Mattie's blue eyes softened as she gazed upon her old governess. "Oh, Gilly. Where would I be without you?"

  "You would do just as well without me, I daresay."

  "No," Mattie said decisively. "I would not."

  * * * *

  It was no more than a day later that Mrs. Puckeridge, the rector's wife, while scolding the kitchen maid for spoiling the perfectly good leg of mutton she had intended for dinner, heard the sound of carriage wheels upon the drive. Looking out a window, she was astonished to see the traveling coach of the Duchess of Upavon pulling up in front of the rectory. An ancient coachman unbent himself from the box, lowered himself slowly to the ground, and hobbled around to the carriage door.

  He handed out not only Her Grace's companion— a woman who, Mrs. Puckeridge considered, acted far above her station— but also the duchess herself, dressed for a morning call.

  In a sudden flurry, Mrs. Puckeridge dismissed the kitchenmaid, then frantically called her back and adjured her in a loud whisper to ready the tea tray and not to make a muck of things this time. That order given, she ran to a mirror to tidy her hair and smooth her dress, thinking all the while what a coup this was.

  She knew for a fact that the Duchess of Upavon had neither originated calls nor returned those from her neighbours— not even the calls from Lady Westbury herself. Mrs. Puckeridge had spent a cosy hour with her ladyship only the day before in which they had discussed Her Grace's deficiencies in this respect at length.

  She knew that Lady Westbury would be particularly irked to discover that Her Grace had chosen one of her humbler neighbours on whom to confer this honour, and she could not wait to be the bearer of such tidings to her ladyship.

  By the time the bell was pulled, she had composed herself in an attitude of virtuous leisure in her parlour, to appear as if she had been stitching there all morning. When the guests were ushered in, she could set down the altar cloth she was hemming and appear surprised.

  "Your Grace." Mrs. Puckeridge swooped her the deep curtsey she had practiced for days on first learning of the duchess's arrival in the vicinity and had subsequently had so little occasion to use. She gave a chilly nod to Miss Fotheringill, who accepted the greeting with a gentle smile.

  Mattie noticed the hint of amusement in Gilly's eyes and decided not to let Mrs. Puckeridge's obsequious behaviour discommode her. They had come for a purpose, and she could not complain of her hostess's behaviour when her own motives for calling were far from noble. She accepted the chair Mrs. Puckeridge offered and looked to Gilly to help her through the preliminaries.

  Mattie had no practice in making small talk, and she had insisted that Gilly accompany her to help her with this part of her mission. She needn't have worried, for Mrs. Puckeridge, with her incurable nosiness, was quite capable of filling the void with impertinent questions of her own.

  It was not long before she touched upon Lady Pamela, and wondered aloud why Her Grace had not thought to bring her daughter to meet one of her own, so that Mattie was soon able to jump in with her plans for the rout.

  As soon as the rector's wife heard that the Duchess of Upavon would be eager to give a party for her daughter if she were not so woefully new to the neighborhood that she did not quite know where to begin, Mrs. Puckeridge leapt to offer her services.

  Yes, she said delightedly, she would be more than happy to help with the guest list, and to prove her capability on that score, she gave a rapid, though incomplete rundown of the neighbouring families with children of a suitable age. She made a mental note to herself to write her own son immediately and insist that he come down from Oxford to attend the rout.

  When dancing was mentioned, she said she fancied Monsieur Le Gros, an émigrée in the High Street, could be applied to for lessons in all the most up-to-date steps. And, she said, if Her Grace would not be offended by the suggestion, she could recommend both a caterer, to supply excellent food and drink, as well as several girls— virtuous, hardworking girls— who might be taken on as extra servants if needed.

  By the time Mattie left, accompanied by Gilly, Mrs. Puckeridge had solved all the most pressing problems of the rout and Mattie could relax in part, knowing at least, what steps she had to take.

  She left Mrs. Puckeridge up in the boughs, for that lady, after suffering a series of rebuffs at Her Grace's door, had begun to relinquish her long-cherished dream of becoming the duchess's primary confidante. Now, with one stroke, her ambition had been restored, and for several moments after her guests' departure, she could only stare at the door that had closed behind them with a smile upon her face.

  Emerging from this glowing reverie, she suffered an immediate burst of dissatisfaction at finding herself alone. She knew that her morning would be quite ruined if she could not impart her bit of gossip to someone who, as a result of learning the extent of her involvement in the duchess's scheme, would be eaten up by envy.

  Putting aside the plans for her morning's work, she took up her cloak and ordered up the gig to make a call on Lady Westbury.

  Her ladyship's reaction to the news was not entirely what she'd anticipated, although for one brief, blessed moment, Mrs. Puckeridge could detect a touch of resentment in her ladyship's eyes. Then, Lady Westbury recovered herself and assumed an expression of great secrecy and importance.

  "This is no more than to be expected," her ladyship stated, folding her hands tidily in her lap. "Not but what I should have expected the duchess to call upon me if she had need of particular guidance in a social matter, which I daresay she must. However, considering the likely reason for her sudden decision to entertain, I can quite see why she hesitated to apply to me. The answer is entirely obvious."

  "Oh?" Mrs. Puckeridge was finding herself once again on the out, which she could not like. But it would be
just like Lady Westbury to attempt to undercut her accomplishment. "Is there some particular reason why she would hesitate to come to you for assistance?"

  Lady Westbury smiled smugly. "I am not at liberty to say, but you must know that my son, Westbury, has been calling upon Lady Pamela. His attentions have been most assiduous over the past few weeks. He has been teaching her how to drive his phaeton— though why any gel would wish to know how to drive such a dangerous vehicle I cannot imagine. And I know, besides, that she has applied to both my sons for advice concerning the use of her pasturage."

  "I see . . . " Mrs. Puckeridge said in a tone designed to invite confidence.

  "I see that you do." Lady Westbury beamed upon her inferior with satisfaction. "It would be too early for me to speak openly, but I can congratulate myself on being the instigator of this particular match. It only took a hint from me for Westbury to see the advantages to himself and to his family. Westbury Manor, as you must know, from its name if from nothing else, once formed a part of his patrimony, and it has always seemed to me a crime that it should no longer be. Since Lady Pamela inherited, it seemed the perfect opportunity to replace it where it belongs."

  "I see." Mrs. Puckeridge said again, but she wondered to herself if the duchess did. She filed away this bit of information as something that might be useful to her at a later date. She could not believe that Her Grace of Upavon was aware of Lord Westbury's machinations, and as prime confidante, the post she now expected to obtain, she had a duty to watch out for her friend's interests.

  Now that Lady Westbury, in spite of her best intentions, had let the cat out of the bag, she could not restrain herself from talking about the possibility of the match. It was not long either before her dissatisfaction with the duchess rose to the surface.

  "She is a shatterbrain," Lady Westbury said. "It is no wonder that poor Lady Pamela has been left to grow-up quite wild. Not that I fault the child in the least! No, she is a charming gel— Westbury said so himself upon meeting her — and it will please me to have the governing of her. I almost begin to think it will be a love match. A mother notices these things, and I must say there is rather an air about him— "

  She gave herself a brisk shake and continued stiffly, "But I do not approve of such things, as I told Westbury. I am simply content that he saw fit to heed my advice, for I have to admit that he has not always. And I have advised him not to let it worry him that the gel's mother is such an eccentric. The old duke was one, so it's to be expected that his relic would be."

  Lady Westbury's nostrils flared with distaste. "Still, one cannot but wonder why she insists upon carrying on as if the polite world were not a fit place for her existence."

  Mrs. Puckeridge allowed Lady Westbury to rattle on while she stored away her bits of gossip. Though her ladyship had denied her the full pleasure of imparting her news, she still had the satisfaction of learning the true state of affairs from Lady Westbury herself.

  Who would have thought that a gentleman of Lord Westbury's stature would marry a girl over such a small piece of land?

  * * * *

  News of the Duchess of Upavon's proposed rout swept through the neighbourhood so rapidly, that it was generally known long before the actual invitations were sent out. Many bets on the likelihood of its really occurring had even been placed

  William heard the news with interest. He received it almost simultaneously with discovering a change in Mattie's policy for receiving visitors.

  He had made it his practice to call at the house before searching for Mattie in her garden. Barlow's attempts to dissuade him were so blatant that William had at once perceived their usefulness as a weathervane to gauge his progress, and he was gratified one morning to find that the door was no longer barred to him.

  He had called alone and been subjected to a painful half hour of nursery chat, with Pamela's governess, Miss Fotheringill, in attendance. But after this one success, he made sure to take Gerald along and, following a scheme of his own, advanced the notion of Gerald's riding on a daily basis with Pamela.

  Since he contrived to make Gerald issue the invitation, and he himself made no attempt to join in their party, neither Mattie nor Pamela's governess raised the least objection.

  William observed all this with a secret smile.

  It was on a morning soon thereafter that he and Gerald called upon the ladies and interrupted them in the middle of a dancing lesson.

  Barlow, a long-suffering expression upon his face, showed them into the small saloon, where the ladies were assembled. Miss Fotheringill was seated at the pianoforte, picking out the accompaniment to a country dance. An elderly Monsieur Le Gros, powdered and bewigged, the waist of his knee breeches held in by tight corseting, stood in the corner, clapping out a rhythm while Pamela and Mattie executed their steps.

  William watched for a few moments in amusement as Mattie stiffly acted out the part of gentleman to Pamela's less-than-graceful lady. Then, Monsieur Le Gros perceived the intruders and, with an exclamation of delight, informed the ladies that aid had arrived.

  Mattie, who, at this precise moment, was executing a low bow that showed the delightful roundness of her hips, gave a squeak. She spun around to face William, one hand flying to her lips.

  Pamela reddened under Gerald's wicked grin. Miss Fotheringill stopped playing and nodded graciously to William's bow.

  "But this is excellent!" Monsieur Le Gros said, nearly hopping with excitement. "If messieurs would oblige, we could now form two couples to learn the more difficult steps, n'est pas? Messieurs?"

  Gerald started backing towards the door through which they had come, his agitated stammer producing stream upon stream of apologies, but William quickly cut off his retreat.

  "Where do you think you're going, you young jackanapes?" While the ladies gazed on in amused silence, he held on to the back of Gerald's collar, making escape virtually impossible.

  "For God's sake, Will! You don't expect me to dance, do you?" Gerald whispered fiercely. "I wouldn't know how to take the first step."

  "You do not need to know how. That is the most remarkable thing about dancing lessons. The dancing master teaches you the steps."

  "Aw, Will, you know what I mean. I'll make an ass of myself."

  "No, you won't. Any sprig who can learn to drive and box and fence with the best of them, can learn a few paltry dance steps."

  "I am sure Gerald will do excellently." Mattie came forward to intervene. "But I would hate to coerce him into anything he would find repugnant."

  "Gerald finds anything of a civilized nature to be repugnant," William replied. "However, if you would not object to our intrusion, this would be a prime opportunity to slap some polish on this barbarian."

  Mattie laughed and took Gerald's arm, saying in a coaxing voice, "How could I object? We have all been learning, you see, for my own skills are very rusty indeed, and they are only now coming back to me. I promise to help you as we go along."

  "Thank you, Mattie," William said, handing over his captive.

  He smiled at her and saw her cheeks turn rosy under his regard. Her self-conscious response raised a heat deep inside him, which made it difficult to tear his eyes away. He turned towards Pamela and offered her his arm.

  Now that there were two couples, he and Pamela could square off against the other two for the country dance, letting their imaginations and the intervening beats in the music fill in for the two missing sides. As the most practiced dancer in the group, William could perform his part without thinking and could spend his time observing the others.

  His own partner could not converse when all her attention was needed to govern her feet. Lady Pamela danced with her gaze fixed solidly on the floor in front of her, so that William was at leisure to peer at the other two.

  He had to keep himself from laughing at the dejected air of his brother, who seemed to find dancing more difficult than all his considerable athletic pursuits put together. William would never have believed that his graceful Gerald
could look so clumsy if he had not witnessed the scene himself.

  Mattie, on the other hand, looked like the duchess she was in a flowing skirt that swirled when she walked, with her piquant little chin held high in the air. She danced as if the music flowed through her veins. Her happy expression as she turned and curtsied told William all he needed to know.

  He had to be careful not to stare at her, so he turned his eyes back to his partner and politely kept them there until it was his and Mattie's turn to execute a step together. When they did, and took a turn about the centre of the square, his gaze found hers for one electric moment. The beat in his throat grew more rapid as she turned away in confusion. The feel of her fingertips in his— for neither wore gloves— set a current pulsing through his veins.

  When that country dance was over, Monsieur Le Gros clapped his hands together.

  "That was far more better, messieurs et mesdames. Messieurs, I cannot thank you enough."

  "It was our pleasure," William responded. Then, before he and Gerald could be dismissed, he added, "But the ladies surely must learn more. While we are here, perhaps it would be wise to practice the basic steps of a Sir Roger de Coverley, for that cannot be danced without couples to exchange."

  Monsieur Le Gros became his ally, taking him up on his offer despite Gerald's frown. The couples arranged themselves with Gerald at William's left and the ladies facing them from an imaginary line.

  Miss Fotheringill found a suitable sheet of music, a lively piece written in six-eight time, so they had a vigorous accompaniment. Without any other couples to support them, the ladies switched partners back and forth, going rapidly from William to Gerald, faster and faster, until even Gerald was laughing at the absurdity of it.

  When everyone was breathing heavily from exertion, and Mattie had ended up as his partner, William called a sudden halt.

  "We must save some of our energy for the waltz," he said.

  Mattie's eyes grew round. Cornflower blue stared back at him before she said, "You do not mean to teach us to waltz?"