Summer of Discontent

by M C Beaton

  The dinner bell rang and they all filed in, two by two, like overdressed, overheated animals going into the ark, thought Cassie. She was escorted by Mr. Jensen. Frightened at the inevitable unmasking of her folly, Cassie tripped and stumbled on her way to the dining room. Lord Peter escorted Sophia, who was, of course, placed next to him at dinner.

  The long French windows of the dining room were open. The dining room was on the ground floor, a very modern innovation. But no breeze moved the curtains, and the line of wax candles down the center of the table burned brightly, their flames tall and unwavering.

  Mr. Jensen was entertaining Cassie with scandalous anecdotes about what had happened during the London Season. Although Cassie had been at the Season, she had not been part of it. The only ball she’d attended was held in her parents’ town house, in Sophia’s honor.

  While Mr. Jensen was talking, Cassie glanced down the long table to where her sister sat and noticed that Sophia was unusually animated. Her cheeks were delicately flushed, and she was endeavoring to flirt with Lord Peter. Why, her sister was a little in love with him, marveled Cassie, and then thought sadly that they deserved each other.

  Cassie, however, began to relax and think herself safe. Lord Peter had not cried out at the sight of her, had not told the company that she had been pretending to be a servant. And then during a lull in the conversation, she heard his voice say with dreadful clarity to her mother, “Do you know a Miss Stevens?”

  Before the countess could reply, Sophia tittered and said, “That mad old spinster! She is so poor, she cannot even afford one servant, and so she pretends to have many. It is better than a play to hear her calling to footmen and maids who do not exist.”

  “You horrify me!” exclaimed Lord Peter. “Miss Stevens is a distant relative of mine. I had no idea she had been so badly neglected by the family. I must make her an allowance directly. She should have said something. I am very fond of Miss Stevens.”

  Cassie stared down the table at him, and he shot her one brief mocking look.

  “Sophia was just teasing,” said the countess hurriedly. “Were you not, my pet?”

  “Oh, indeed, Mama. You must not take me seriously, my lord. I quite dote on Miss Stevens.”

  “In that case, I will pluck up my courage and ask a very great favor. Would it be too much of an impertinence to ask that Miss Stevens be sent an invitation to your ball, Lady Wychhaven?”

  “I shall send a footman over with one this very evening,” said the countess.

  “That will not be necessary. I will ride over with it myself tomorrow.”

  The conversation then became general, and Cassie sat, stunned. He had not said one word about her masquerade.

  “Do you know Miss Stevens?” she heard Mr. Jensen ask.

  “Yes, yes,” said Cassie. “She is a dear friend of mine.”

  “Then I shall look forward to meeting her.”

  Cassie bit her lip. She leaned over to Uncle Wilbur. “I wonder if Lord Peter realizes the fluster into which she will be thrown. She will long to go, but she will need a suitable gown, and then she will have to walk all the way to Bramfield Park, for she cannot afford a carriage.” Cassie knew that Miss Stevens, thanks to Lord Peter’s rouleau of guineas, could afford to hire some sort of gig from the inn, but also knew that Miss Stevens was treated as some sort of joke by everyone in the village and would probably have to submit to the insolence of some local driver on her road to Bramfield Park.

  Uncle Wilbur, who was sitting on the other side of Cassie, said suddenly, “I could take a carriage down and fetch her. And as to her gown? Is she fat?”

  “No, not at all,” said Cassie.

  “Then take something of Sophia’s.”

  “That would not answer.” Cassie wrinkled her brow. “If Sophia recognized that gown, she would make such a scene.”

  “Then one of your own?”

  “Even if Sophia knew it was one of mine, she would still make a scene. It only lacks a week until the ball, too short a time, surely, to get something made.”

  “The nearest biggest town is Barminster,” said Uncle Wilbur. “Could take her there to the dressmakers, Mr. Glossop. These dressmakers are often left with gowns that the lady who ordered cannot pay for. I have it! I shall say I want an outing, take one of the carriages, and escort Miss Stevens to Barminster.”

  “Good idea!” exclaimed Mr. Jensen. “We’ll all go.”

  “I do not think we should mention either Sophia’s remark, which prompted Lord Peter’s rejoinder,” said Cassie cautiously, “or that he claimed to be related to her. I am sure he is no relation of hers, but any mention of her relatives throws Miss Stevens into confusion. She is always so sad that they hardly come to see her and that they keep her on such short commons that she is barely able to afford coals for the winter. Let her think it was Mama herself who decided to invite her.”

  Lord Peter looked over. Now, what were that odd three so happy and elated about? wondered Lord Peter crossly. He compared Sophia’s looks, unoriginally, to a summer’s day, and that young lady rapped his hand with her fan and flirted her eyelashes at him, but Cassie did not even look down the table.

  “I had better go tonight and warn her,” Cassie was saying.

  “We will all go,” said Uncle Wilbur. “After dinner. No harm in just saying we want to take the air.”

  Lord Peter noticed that when the countess rose to lead the ladies to the drawing room so as to leave the gentlemen to their wine, Uncle Wilbur and Mr. Jensen rose, too, and followed them out.

  He was so engrossed in wondering what that pair was up to—and if it had anything to do with Cassie—that he did not notice that the earl was now sitting next to him and asking, “Is it too much to hope for an announcement to an engagement at the ball?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Lord Peter said automatically. Were they plotting something? And why was that Jensen fellow always hanging about? He was old enough to be Lady Cassandra’s father.

  “To put it bluntly,” said the earl. “Are you going to marry my daughter?”

  “Yes, yes,” said Lord Peter, who had not heard a word.

  “You have made me the happiest of men.”

  Lord Peter heard that. He looked at the earl in alarm.

  “I have?”

  “Of course. Do you wish me to announce your engagement at the ball? Or do you wish to do it yourself?”

  Lord Peter cursed Cassie in his soul for having distracted him so badly that he had unwittingly given his assent to an engagement.

  “I shall announce it myself,” he said, thinking rapidly. “But you must promise to keep it a secret from your wife and daughters.”

  “If that is your wish.” The earl looked disappointed.

  Damn that witch Cassandra, thought Lord Peter bitterly. I should have exposed her.

  He was to damn her even more bitterly when they joined the ladies and he found Cassie absent.

  “Where is your sister?” he asked Sophia.

  “Uncle Wilbur wanted to take the air,” said Sophia, “and Cassie and Mr. Jensen went with him. Poor little Cassie. Such an odd child. And such unfortunate hair.”

  “I cannot understand this dislike of red hair,” remarked Lord Peter testily. “It is damned as Scotch, and yet red hair is traditionally British. Caligula never invaded Britain but pretended he had by taking some tall Gauls, dying their hair red, and parading them as British prisoners of war.”

  Sophia had not the faintest idea who Caligula was or had been, and so she hid her face with her fan and peeped over the top of it at him in what she was firmly convinced was a killing manner.

  ***

  Miss Stevens sat openmouthed in bewilderment, facing Uncle Wilbur and Mr. Jensen and listening to Cassie telling her she was to go to the ball and how they were going to try to find a gown for her.

  “Oh! Oh! Oh!” She kept giving little shrieks of amazement.

  “I do not think I can go through with it,” she said when Cassie had finish
ed. “So much to think of. And … and … I would need to walk because you know …” She looked at Cassie miserably.

  “Bring the carriage down and escort you meself,” said Uncle Wilbur suddenly.

  Miss Stevens’s faded blue eyes looked at the spry white-haired figure of Uncle Wilbur with dawning surprise and gratification. “I should not … but yes, sir, in that case, I could face dragons. We must have something to celebrate.” She rang the bell. “Lucy!”

  And for the first time ever, a real servant appeared, a small shy girl, neatly dressed in a print frock and apron.

  “Fetch the elderberry wine,” said Miss Stevens grandly, and Lucy bobbed a curtsy and went off to bring it.

  They fell to discussing the dress Miss Stevens should wear. Uncle Wilbur became quite skittish after several glasses of elderberry wine and said transparent muslin was the thing, and to Cassie’s amazement Miss Stevens blushed and giggled like a young girl.

  At last it was agreed they should all go to Barminster on the following day and that Cassie, Uncle Wilbur, and Mr. Jensen would call for her at eleven in the morning.

  ***

  At ten in the morning Miss Stevens was so excited about the forthcoming expedition that she was dressed in her best to go out; the youthful gown that Cassie had given her, a straw bonnet ornamented with silk flowers, a rather faded gold silk pelisse trimmed with cotton lace, and a parasol.

  She sat rigidly in a chair in her little parlor, wondering whether they would actually come. It all seemed too much excitement to arrive in the life of one lonely spinster all at once.

  And then she heard the sound of horses’ hooves and stared in amazement at the clock. But it could not be them. Much too early.

  But she heard the garden gate creak a few moments later and then, a few moments after that, a brisk rap at the door. Lucy, Miss Stevens knew, was out in the back garden hanging out the wash. Too unnerved to go through her usual rigmarole of calling on imaginary footmen, she answered the door herself and looked up at the tall figure of Lord Peter Courtney.

  “My lord,” she gasped. “I was not expecting you.”

  He smiled down at her in a way that made Miss Stevens wonder why on earth Cassie was not head over heels in love with this man.

  “It will only take a little of your time,” he said. “May we go inside?”

  Miss Stevens sat down nervously facing him. “I am come,” he began, “because of a lie I told at dinner last night. I asked the countess if she knew you, and for some mad reason I claimed that you were a distant relative of mine.”

  “Oh, Lord Peter, I am most gratified.”

  “The delicacy of the situation is this. I cannot have a relative, supposed or otherwise, living in circumstances that I gather are not particularly comfortable.”

  Tears appeared in Miss Stevens’s eyes. “I try so hard, my lord, to keep up appearances. I had not thought the poverty of my situation so evident.”

  “I am sure to most people you appear a lady of means, Miss Stevens,” he said, reassuring her. “But I am also sure such a kind and good lady like yourself would not humiliate me by refusing my offer.”

  Miss Stevens dried her eyes with a lace-edged cambric handkerchief and looked at him in a dazed way. “Offer?” she echoed.

  “I would like to settle a sum on you, just a little, three hundred pounds a year.” Lord Peter could have made it very much more, but he shrewdly suspected that any grand sum would be turned down flat.

  Miss Stevens turned from mortified red to shocked white. She put a trembling hand up to her heart. “Three hundred pounds.”

  “A trifling sum, I admit. Do please say yes. Think of Cassie—Lady Cassandra. She is very fond of you and would be pleased to see you living in some comfort.”

  Miss Stevens thought of three hundred pounds, of warmth and comfort, of security, of the fact that he had already ordered the tradesmen to send their bills to him right up until Christmas. She fell to her knees and raised her clasped hands up to him. “You are a saint,” she whispered.

  Alarmed, Lord Peter raised her to her feet. “Enough, Miss Stevens. It means so little to me, I assure you.” He helped her to a chair and picked up a fan from a table and fanned her.

  When she had recovered somewhat, Miss Stevens looked up at him. “Are you doing this for Cassie?”

  His face hardened. He recalled Cassie calling him old and disgusting. “I have no interest in that hoyden,” he said curtly. “Well, I am glad that is settled, Miss Stevens. I must bid you good day.”

  Flustered, she followed him to the door, begging him to stay and take some refreshment, but he merely smiled and said she would be hearing from his bankers and left.

  ***

  Miss Stevens sat down again and forced herself to be calm: She was firmly convinced that all Lord Peter’s interest in her had been caused by Cassie. How wonderful it would be, thought Miss Stevens, if Cassie should snatch the prize from under Sophia’s haughty nose.

  She sat so long buried in thought that she did not at first realize the party to take her to Barminster had arrived and were impatiently waiting outside until her little maid came running in to tell her.

  The weather was still hot and fine, and so Uncle Wilbur had managed to get hold of an open carriage, which he was driving himself, looking like a relic of the last century in splendid chintz coat, ruffled shirt, long silk waistcoat, knee breeches, and three-cornered hat.

  In her excitement Miss Stevens fell into the carriage and was helped up into her seat by Cassie and Mr. Jensen, who listened amazed to the torrent of gratitude pouring from the spinster’s lips about “dear” Lord Peter and how he was a veritable saint.

  When she had finished, Mr. Jensen looked slyly at Cassie. “There’s something here you have not told us, Lady Cassandra. I could have sworn last night was the first time you had met our illustrious guest. So how is it that Lord Peter suddenly claims Miss Stevens here as a relative?”

  “Because she is,” said Cassie, flashing Miss Stevens a warning look.

  With all the ease of the lonely and imaginative, Miss Stevens began to lie fluently. “Yes, indeed, I had quite forgot. I am a very distant relative, of course, and with my nearer relatives being so indifferent to me, I had forgot about the faraway ones. You could have knocked me over with a feather when I learned of the connection.”

  The carriage had reached a straight stretch of road, and Uncle Wilbur called, “Hold on tightly. Going to spring ’em,” and off they hurtled at a great rate while Miss Stevens hung on to her bonnet and wondered whether it might be possible to die from sheer happiness.

  Barminster was a fairly large town on the coast which had started life as a fishing village, but then had been made fashionably popular at the end of the last century by the vogue for sea bathing. It had not yet had the honor of a visit from the Prince Regent, but one of the royal dukes had bathed there and also some foreign prince from a country no one had ever heard of. It attracted a great number of the new rising middle class, who were anxious to ape their betters and who were possessed of a rigid snobbery that outdid any pecking order in the ranks of the aristocracy and gentry. The old Pelican Inn on the waterfront had been converted into a hotel to meet the new demand, and it was there that Uncle Wilbur took them to refresh themselves with tea and cakes before walking through the narrow lanes to where Mr. Glossop had his dressmaking salon, Mr. Glossop having risen too high in the world to call his premises a shop.

  Uncle Wilbur explained the situation to the dressmaker while Miss Stevens stood shyly by, wishing she were younger and prettier and more worthy of all this attention.

  “I do have a ball gown,” said Mr. Glossop, “made to order for a certain lady. But, fan me ye winds, if she did not decamp and leave me with it. It will fit madam’s figure excellent well.” He snapped his fingers, and two young male assistants as rouged and pomaded as their master jumped to attention. “Fetch the gold silk,” he ordered.

  Soon the dress was spread out before Miss Stevens for in
spection. It was high-waisted in the current fashion, and the bodice and hem were thickly embroidered with gold thread and seed pearls. There was a gold silk turban to go with it with a fall of gold gauze hanging down the back.

  “Try it on,” urged Cassie.

  Miss Stevens was led off. Cassie looked out the window at the stretch of blue sea beyond. She wondered what had prompted Lord Peter’s generosity. Could it possibly have anything to do with her? She found herself remembering the feel of his hands and the warmth of his mouth. She felt Mr. Jensen’s eyes on her and blushed as red as her hair.

  Miss Stevens came back and stood nervously before them. “Perfect,” said Uncle Wilbur, and the others agreed. The rich gown gave her dignity. The assistants leapt about the shop with long mirrors, which they wheeled this way and that so that Miss Stevens could see herself all round.

  She took a deep breath. “I shall take it, Mr. Glossop. How much?”

  Mr. Glossop wrote the price on a slip of paper and handed it to her. “Oh!” shrieked Miss Stevens in distress. “So much! I couldn’t possibly … Dear me, I’m wearing it. I must get it off before anything happens.”

  Uncle Wilbur twitched the slip of paper from the spinster’s nerveless fingers, raised his quizzing glass, and examined it. “A bagatelle,” he said with a shrug. “We’ll take it, Mr. Glossop. My present, Miss Stevens, but I expect a dance, y’know.”

  “I couldn’t … I mustn’t …” wailed Miss Stevens. “Four hundred pounds for a mere gown in a provincial town. It’s wicked.”

  “Take it,” urged Cassie.

  “It is a reduced price,” said Mr. Glossop. “The thread is real gold—and the pearls! May I be cast into the deepest pit if I do not tell the truth. May savage horses stamp on me. May the fiends from the nether regions stick me with pitchforks if I tell a lie. Those pearls are genuine, from the Indies, brought up from the depths of the ocean in the brown fingers of divers who risked their lives so that you, madam, may look beautiful. My stars and garters, part of my soul is in that gown.”