What if William abandoned them, and they were left once again to their own devices?
That very afternoon, as promised, a card was sent over from Norton Abbey giving the name and direction of Lady Westbury's modiste. Before she could forget to do so again, Mattie ordered up the carriage and took Pamela to call upon the woman directly.
She had planned to make an appointment only, and perhaps to see some of the dressmaker's patterns, but she and Pamela were warmly greeted at the door, and Madame Riviere, as the modiste was called, insisted she could see them at once.
Then Mattie had no time to be confused or flustered, for Madame Riviere took her firmly in hand. She saw that her customers were comfortably seated, supplied them with tea and biscuits, and brought out the books of patterns to choose from.
Mattie was so delighted with what she saw, and so surprised to see how the fashions had changed since she had last bothered to look, she knew that one dress apiece would not be nearly enough. Very firmly, she ordered six gowns for each of them— two morning gowns, one walking dress and one new riding habit, as well as two that would be appropriate for evening— and gave instructions to have them delivered at intervals.
Money was no object, of course, but she did not want Turner's feelings to be hurt, and this way, with the deliveries coming a week or two apart, she would gradually become accustomed to the idea of being assisted with her work. Mattie made a note to herself to send Gilly down for some new dresses, too.
Mattie left Madame Riviere's with the feeling of someone who had just discovered the secret of life. The sense of oppression under which she had suffered whenever she'd thought of Pamela's London season, had now been lifted to the extent that she could contemplate its prospect without complete terror. Every day she had spent learning how to cope outside her self-imposed exile had brought a piece of a major revelation: that living in the world might not be so very bad after all.
A sense of excitement accompanied this discovery. Mattie knew that she was looking forward to her rout, not with dread, but with a trembling anticipation, as nothing else in her life had yet inspired.
But this was all brought to an end when Mrs. Puckeridge delivered her dreadful news.
That lady, unbeknownst to Mattie, had been suffering from a profound sense of injustice. On the duchess's behalf, she had called upon Mr. Jones, the caterer, only to be told— very politely to be sure, for no one would wish to offend the rector's wife— that Mr. Jones had already presented his services to Her Grace upon the request of Lord Westbury himself.
She had encountered a similar story from each tradesman in the village. Lord Westbury had sent down his card to each of the men she had planned to recommend with the request that they call upon the duchess with regard to her rout. He had stolen a march on her, and the fact that the gentleman in question knew nothing of his sins did not weigh with her in the least. It was she who was supposed to be the duchess's right-hand friend and confidante. Not his lordship.
The only comfort she could derive from finding herself useless to the impending event was to resort to a tactic she told herself that she abhorred. But she could not let Her Grace of Upavon be so shamefully used. His lordship was playing a devious game, and so the duchess should be told.
Mattie received Mrs. Puckeridge as warmly as she could, despite the fact that she could not quite like her. Mattie could see that the woman was operating under a sense of ill-use, though she did not know why.
Consequently, she spent a great deal of time asking after Mrs. Puckeridge's children, and the rector, and the rectory, until she could see some relaxation in her visitor's mien. An offering of tea, poured out with Mattie's own hands, did much to soften the other woman as well.
It was not long before the talk turned to the rout, and Mrs. Puckeridge asked stiffly how Mattie's arrangements were progressing.
Mattie saw no reason to withhold the details, so she described the proposed party with all the enthusiasm she had begun to feel for it. Soon, she realized that her happy chatter had brought a frown to Mrs. Puckeridge's face.
She faltered and asked, "Is anything the matter?"
Mrs. Puckeridge clasped her hands in her lap and pursed her lips. "I do not like to be the bearer of bad tidings, but I feel it to be my duty under the circumstances."
"Good heavens, what is it?" Mattie asked. "Has the caterer been taken ill?"
Mrs. Puckeridge scoffed. "Mr. Jones, taken ill? It is not very likely, is it, when it is his wife does all the work, and he merely does the speaking for her? No, Your Grace, I did not come here to speak of him."
"Who is it then? One of the maids? Madame Riviere, the modiste?"
Mrs. Puckeridge straightened in her chair. "Have you ordered dresses from that woman?"
"Yes. Dear me. Is there some reason I should not have? But Will— his lordship did say that— "
"His lordship, is it? I should have known, not but what I should have supposed you would come to me to recommend a dresser, instead of asking a gentleman's opinion on the subject. And I would have offered first, but I understood as how you had a dresser of your own."
"I do," Mattie said, understanding at last the cause of her visitor's resentment. "And that is why I did not ask your advice at once, as grateful as I was over your help with the guest list, but you see, I— " She stopped before confessing her forgetfulness to Mrs. Puckeridge, who would only scorn it, Mattie was certain. and she straightened her own back.
"Mrs. Puckeridge," she said, straightening her own shoulders, "if there is something you believe I should know, I wish you would tell it to me at once. This veiled sort of talk is making me very uneasy, I assure you."
"I do not like to be the bearer of bad tidings," that lady insisted upon repeating, "but I did not feel it right to keep silent when I knew you was being fooled."
"Being fooled?" Mattie felt a sudden sinking in the pit of her stomach. "By whom and about what? Be specific, if you please."
"By Lord Westbury himself!" Mrs. Puckeridge tucked her chin in a pose of self-righteousness. "Not but what it shames me to inform you. I would not think it of his lordship, if his mama had not told me of the scheme herself."
"Told you of what scheme?" Mattie's breath had nearly deserted her, but she managed to ask this much. William was fooling her? Please, Lord, no.
Mrs. Puckeridge bent forward to pat her hand. "There, there. I knew how it was as soon as I called at the Joneses and heard Lord Westbury had been around about the rout. What, I says to myself, would his lordship want with a caterer when he never stays more than two nights running in his own house. Then, I thought of what her ladyship had been telling me, soon as she knew about the rout being planned."
Please stop this stalling, Mattie wanted to say, but she could not speak. She could only wait as calmly as she could for the woman to go on.
Mrs. Puckeridge was smiling smugly now. She had got Mattie's attention, and seemed so satisfied with herself, that Mattie knew a brief moment of hope. Perhaps, the rector's wife was so full of mischief— or malice— Mattie hardly knew the difference— that she had taken pleasure in making a story up.
"It's this property," the woman finally said. "Westbury Manor— you know its history, I am sure."
"I know something of it, of course." Pammy's dowry. How could I forget my suspicions about Pammy's dowry?
"Her ladyship says that it's his lordship's intention to woo Lady Pamela in order to get it back. You ought to hear her speak of it. She's quite proud, for it was her idea that put him up to it, as she admitted to me only two weeks ago. That day you came to me, in fact."
Mrs. Puckeridge continued, unaware that she was giving herself away, "I had just called on her ladyship, meaning to give her the good news about your rout, when she told me it was in honour of her son and Lady Pamela, no doubt, as a result of this match she had been scheming for. Then, she gave me to understand what his lordship's interest was in the match."
Mattie felt like retching. She knew her daughter's heart ha
d not been engaged, but still . . . . Something inside her was breaking. "You say," she stammered, "Lord Westbury wants to marry my daughter for this property? And for no other reason?"
Mrs. Puckeridge answered reluctantly, "She did say as how his lordship was quite pleased with Lady Pamela. Called her charming and such like." Then she asked tentatively, "I hope no engagement has been arrived at. I would not like to have spoken if— "
"No," Mattie said firmly, though her lips were quivering. "There has been no agreement reached, and there will not be. You need have no qualms on that score."
Mrs. Puckeridge sat back with a smile on her face. And she would stay on, no matter how Mattie tried to discourage her with silence, until eventually, even she could not fail to take the hint and took herself off.
Mattie sat alone for several minutes after her visitor had left, trying to compose her feelings. All their fun, all their delight together, had been nothing but a sham. She had been suspicious of William's interest from the start, and yet she had let herself be wooed and swayed by a cunning stranger. She had opened up, had taken risks she had never taken before. And she had almost cost her daughter her heart.
There would be nothing for it, but to give the rout as planned. Too many people were counting on it, the tradesmen and the neighbours. But she would see to it that William could not pull off any more of his tricks.
Mattie was on the point of rising to go confess to Gilly how she had let herself be duped, when the sound of an arrival at the front door burst upon her notice.
Chapter Eight
"Uncle Cosmo!"
Mattie perceived her visitor, descending heavily from his carriage, and ran to throw herself upon his chest.
"There, there, puss." The present Duke of Upavon reddened and chuckled. "No need to knock me down."
Curbing her impulsive behaviour— the result of her recent discovery, she knew— Mattie released her husband's brother and straightened his neckcloth, while gazing upon his welcome features.
Cosmo Staveley was immediately recognizable as a relative of Lady Pamela, his niece. He possessed the same curly blond hair, now reduced to a tonsure, the same rosy complexion easily turned to red, and the same tendency to girth, though Cosmo, under the influence of excellent food and drink, had long since converted that tendency into substance.
Mattie's unbridled welcome had put him to the blush, but he asked astutely, "What's the matter, puss? What's got you in such a fret?"
"Oh, we are all at sixes and sevens at the moment." Mattie regretted her carelessness already, and she was determined not to burden him with her troubles. "We're giving a rout, and I suppose all the fuss has put me into a dither."
"A rout?" Cosmo's face altered comically. He took on the pallor of a man whose last meal has suddenly revolted. "Not tonight, is it? Wouldn't have come if I'd known. Serves me right, you'll say, for arriving unannounced."
"I shall say no such thing," Mattie replied. "But no, it is not for today. It's on for tomorrow night."
Relief flooded his cheeks with pink. "That gives me time to make my escape on the morrow. Only came to see how you go on, you know."
"That was dear of you, Cosmo. Why don't you come in, and we'll try to make you comfortable while you are here."
Mattie was grateful for his unexpected visit, which would keep her from thinking too much about William. At least, she hoped that it would. And, while seeing Cosmo settled into his old room and ordering up a dinner that was sure to please him, she was able for the moment to put her hurt aside.
Between the time when Pamela went off to bed and the hour that Mattie and Cosmo settled down to their game of whist, however, she spent a half-hour with Gilly in the drawing room waiting for Cosmo to finish his port, and all her heartache returned.
Cosmo had not seemed to notice, but as soon as Gilly excused herself for the evening, he raised his eyes from his cards and said, "Out with it, puss. There's something troubling you, and it don't take a genius to see it."
"Oh . . . ." Mattie waved a hand, trying to appear as if it were nothing. His perspicacity had taken her by surprise, and she wondered just how much her feelings showed. She had taken such pains to hide them from Gilly, a sudden reticence to confide having overtaken her when she might have shared them, but she had never expected Cosmo to be the one to ferret them out.
"No use trying to bam me." He reached across the table and gave her cheek a pinch. "Knew there was something wrong, soon as I saw all your bloom had gone missing. Not money, is it? Pamela playing the horses?" He shook his head and scolded her, "Only to come to me if it is."
"No, dearest. I am afraid it has nothing to do with money. You know how well His Grace provided for me, and if he had not, how could I ever forget your generosity?"
"Mine?" Cosmo's brows flew up. "What have I ever given you?"
Mattie smiled lovingly at him. "Have you forgotten how you insisted that I should take His Grace's servants to live with me?"
Cosmo blushed to the tips of his ears. "Nothing generous about it. Last thing a man wants is to be saddled with his brother's servants. Besides" — a rueful expression crossed his face— "always treated me like some kind of interloper.
"But— " he caught himself up short— "out with it now. What's toward?"
Mattie sighed and answered honestly, "It has something to do with our neighbour, Lord Westbury. He has been dangling after Pammy, and I've only now discovered— "
She broke off, somehow unwilling to state the case as baldly as she had been forced to see it.
"Discovered what? Fellow's not a loose screw, is he? Seems to me, I've never heard anything bad about him."
"Not a loose screw, no." She paused. "At least, I do not think so." Mattie stared at the hands clenched in her lap. "I'm afraid that his motives for pursuing Pamela— although perhaps quite acceptable by society's standards— do not entirely meet with my own. I want something better for her, that is all."
"Want me to send the fellow about his business? Could, you know. Head of the family and all that." Cosmo's round, pink face screwed up with anxiety.
Gratitude warmed Mattie's heart. "I know you could, dearest. But I think I should be the one to do it, as Pamela's only remaining parent."
"Could marry me, you know." Cosmo squirmed in his chair. "Very fond of you and all that. Certain you would make me very happy."
Mattie's eyes flooded with tears, and her lips quivered inexplicably. "No, thank you, dearest. You mustn't feel the need to do that."
Cosmo's expression changed into a strange combination of worry and guilt. "Aren't bothered by what parson'll say, are you? Brother's wife, and all that. Superstitious mumbo-jumbo."
Mattie gave a watery chuckle. She left her chair and went around to hug him. "No, dearest. It is just that you are perfectly comfortable as you are, and you don't need me to disturb you."
She planted a kiss on the top of his bald pate, and Cosmo turned the shade of a ripe cherry.
"Wouldn't bother me," he said, looking down at the table. "Never bothered m' brother. Said you were a good girl and I should look after you."
"And you have." Mattie rested her cheek sadly on his head. She did not know why his proposal had distressed her so much, but in spite of her affection for him, which was very real, for a moment she had felt a moment of fear— a sense of history repeating itself.
"You've come to see how we go on, and I do feel better for having you here, however briefly. You must come as often as you like."
She left his side to retake her seat, and Cosmo confided sheepishly, "On my way back from Newmarket, you know. Right on the way. No trouble at all."
"I am very glad to hear it. Now, let us forget my foolish worries and play, shall we?"
Mattie took up her hand, and for the rest of the evening, was able to entertain her guest without too much effort to appear restored. It helped that many years ago, she had learned to ignore her own desires for the sake of others.
What she wanted now was not terribly clear
, but she knew that she had no wish to face William tomorrow.
The next day passed in a rush of preparations and last-minute changes. Cosmo insisted upon parting after breakfast so as not to be in the way, although Mattie supposed he was terrified by the possibility that his carriage might break down and cause him to stay and face her guests.
When he bid her goodbye at the door, he paused to say, "Don't let yourself fret too much, puss. Come to see me in Bath any time you want. Only have to speak. . . and so on."
Mattie thanked him with a tight hug that turned his words into stammers and sent him on his way.
By that evening, Mattie was all a-tremble. The rooms were decorated to her satisfaction, her new dress delivered in time, the food and games all taken care of, and Gilly set to play accompaniment if anyone cared to dance. But Mattie knew that William would be there, and she did not know how to meet his gaze without revealing her bitter disappointment.
His flowers had arrived after noon. One box for her and one for Pamela. Mattie watched her daughter open the card that had been addressed to her and turn pink with pleasure as she read the message. Mattie did not ask to see it, nor could she bring herself to open the small white note that accompanied her posy of pale pink roses and feathery Queen Anne's lace.
She debated whether or not to wear the flowers. They were so beautiful. It pained her to turn her back on them, and in the end, she decided to wear them. She did not want to speak to William at the rout and suspected that he might question her about the flowers' arrival if he did not see them on her breast.
The guests arrived mostly in pairs of mother and daughter or mother and son, though some came in larger family groups. The boys bowed nervously; the girls made awkward curtsies; a few giggled noisily depending upon their gender and the strictness of either parent.
But no matter how anxious they were when they entered the door, the same humour pervaded the lot of them: high spirits in youthful bodies, and an expectation of having a good time.
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