Perdita

by Joan Smith

  If wise counsel prevailed with my beau, he would gracefully back out of my life, and I would not throw a rub in his way. He had not actually asked me to marry him. I relied heavily on his lack of wisdom. If he was inclined to the folly of offering, I would not say no. On that determination, I slept very soundly.

  When we went below in the morning, our first question was for Stornaway’s condition. "He slept like a top,” Steddy assured us. "He wants a shave before you ladies go up to say good morning.”

  This sounded hopeful, that he wished to show us his most handsome face. Before the shave was com­menced, the doctor arrived with his black bag. He lowered his brows and scowled, to see us still in the house, after having been invited to leave.

  "This will be a fine welcome for Lady Stornaway,” he said stiffly.

  "She is not coming. She does not even know about Birdland,” Perdita told him.

  "I felt obliged to inform her,” the doctor answered. "The Duchess of Sarnia suggested it.”

  I did not bother to inquire his business at Sarnia’s place. He had run to them to begin spreading the scandal, if I read the man’s character aright.

  “Is his mother in London, or at Stornaway?” I asked, to gauge how long it would take her to arrive.

  “She was in London. She should be here shortly. She could not like to set out last night in the dark, but promised she would come first thing in the morning.”

  I quickly considered what was best to be done. That dame was bound to dislike us. To find us in her son’s house, after remaining overnight unchaper­oned was not likely to appease her in the least. Our best course was to be gone before she arrived.

  The doctor bowed briefly, then went upstairs. I called Steddy at once. “We are leaving for London immediately,” I told him, and went on to explain my reason.

  “Stornaway knows our destination. Tell him we have gone, and why. Don’t bother to accompany us, Steddy. Stay with him; he may need you. We shall take Stornaway’s carriage and groom, and send them back as soon as possible.”

  “It might be for the best,” Steddy agreed, after a little considering. “His lordship ain’t in high enough gig to take any extra scoldings today. I’ll tell him what happened.”

  Our packing did not take longer than ten minutes. When we came down, the carriage was just being driven forth from the stable. We clambered in, and the horses sprang into motion.

  The day could not have been finer. The new leaves were forming green arches overhead, and in the distance, the river sparkled gold and orange. I had been looking forward to the day at Birdland, but had soon switched my thoughts to excuses that would pass muster with a thoroughly disgruntled Mrs. Alton, and disgruntled she would be at John’s en­gagement to anyone other than Perdita. Miss Grifford was a good catch, but a better one from one’s own neighborhood had more appeal for her. Who would know, at Swindon, that John had nabbed a prize heiress? What would the name Grifford mean to them? Nothing, whereas the Brodies had the charm of social superiority at home.

  We arrived about fifteen minutes after John’s letter telling his mother of his engagement. She was in such a temper she scarcely made us welcome, but when we came downstairs from refreshing our toilettes, she had simmered down to vexed acceptance, and wished to learn second-hand what she could of her prospective daughter-in-law and her family.

  "Is she a pretty gel?” she asked eagerly.

  Pretty was not, alas, the word that occurred to one in describing Millicent. "She is not ugly,” Perdita admitted. "Plain, I would say, would not you, Moira?”

  “Better than plain. Very nice eyes,” I said.

  “Do they live in a good style?”

  “A handsome house. Everything of the first stare,” I said quickly. “Sociable—they had a large party when we were there.”

  “Who attended it? Anyone I would know?”

  The names given were not familiar to her. It was not really friends or acquaintances she hoped to hear of, as it turned out, but titles and celebrities, of which there were none save Stornaway, whose name we deemed it wise to withhold.

  After half an hour of lamenting, she decided to like the news, and put on her bonnet to impart it to her cronies. We were invited, but not urged, to join her. I explained we should stay home in case Mrs. Cosgrove came while we were out. I was becoming edgy at not hearing from her. Surely there had been time for one of my letters to have reached her, and for her to have come after us.

  For the remainder of the day we sat waiting, Perdita and I, jumping a foot from our chairs every time the knocker sounded. It sounded steadily all afternoon, as word of John’s engagement was circulated and friends called to see whether they were to condole or congratulate the mother. By three o’clock Millicent had become “a very pretty, well-behaved girl.” By three-thirty she was “a considerable heiress, of course,” and by four the tale was being promulgated that Mrs. Alton had hoped for just this alliance for some time. Perdita and I were introduced as friends from Swindon, just waiting for our aunt to call for us, and take us off to Brighton.

  There was even a little impatience creeping into the last speech, for Mrs. Alton expressed the wish of going to Bromley Hall, where John had asked her to go and meet the family. To her last caller, she said quite frankly she would leave early in the morning, as soon as the girls left. I did not like to consider what would become of the girls if it were impossible for them to leave. It did seem an imposition to remain on in an empty house, yet I confess I had not the gall to ask her to take us to Brighton. One can expect only so much good will from neighbors.

  It was with an inexpressible wave of relief that the accents of Maude Cosgrove were heard in the hallway while we sat awaiting the dinner bell. I think those accents were a mixed blessing to Mrs. Alton, who would have preferred to hear them be­fore her table was set, but she was relieved to be decently rid of us.

  Aunt Maude was wise enough to know we were in some unmentionable scrape, and discreet enough to delay her close questions till we had said good night to our hostess, and got our three heads together abovestairs. Mrs. Alton invited Aunt Maude to re­main overnight, it being understood we were all to rise early and go on our separate ways.

  "Pray tell me exactly what is going on, Moira,” Mrs. Cosgrove said, plopping on the edge of her great bed with a sigh of relief. “I have not slept in the same bed two nights in a row for a fortnight, with galloping about the countryside looking for the pair of you. I dashed to Swindon the day I received your letter about that vile Croft person, to give Sir Wilfrid a piece of my mind. I had heard my sister mention him as a debauché twenty years ago. He cannot have been serious to think of marrying Perdita off to such a creature.”

  “Oh but he was, and it was all my stepmother’s doings,” Perdita answered for me.

  Aunt Maude is thin, fashionable, dark-haired and fair-skinned. I should think she was beautiful a few decades ago. She is still not unattractive. “That vulgar woman!” she said scornfully. “It is enough to make a body doubt Sir Wilfrid’s sanity, to see him kowtow to her. But why did he send you to Agatha, instead of to me? He knows I have been wanting to have you for an age. You must be presented proper­ly, in London, Perdita.”

  “I would love it of all things, Auntie!” my charge coo’d, her eyes lighting up magnificently at the suggestion.

  “It was pure spite, his sending us to Agatha,” I answered. “He was so furious at my talking him out of Croft that he sent us to Agatha to show us a lesson.”

  “I would not put it a peg past him, but still I do not know how it comes you are in London, instead of at Bath, or back at home. We were frantic to learn you were not with Agatha. Sir Wilfrid sent me packing merrily off to Bath, and Agatha—who is making a great piece of work about a set of sniffles—assured me you were put off by a letter from her at Chippen­ham. Back to Swindon I go, to be told you never returned. Now, where were you?”

  “We went to you, Auntie,” Perdita said, in her ingratiating way. “We came on to London to Alton�
�s, and John took us to you, but you were not at home, so we stopped off a few days with his new fiancée, then came back here.”

  “I sent letters all over, so you would know where to find us,” I added, hoping she would be satisfied with this sketchy tale.

  “I am happy to hear you behaved so sensibly,” Maude said, more or less satisfied. Neither Perdita nor I could prevent a quick, smiling exchange of glances at this speech. “But then one can always rely on your sound judgment, Moira. You had no trouble along the way?”

  “None of any account. Not worth mentioning,” I said, my voice high with the strain.

  “I see the two of you laughing up your sleeves. Some hedgebird or other was dangling after this minx,” she said, with a sly look at her niece. “I am sure you took good care of her,” she added to me.

  “I trust she is not quite ruined.”

  As I thought of the possible difficulties Maude might encounter in presenting Perdita to Society next year, I braced myself to give some indication of trouble. The Lady Dulcinea or her mama, for exam­ple, might trace a resemblance to April Spring in her.

  “There was one unfortunate incident,” I admitted.

  “I knew it! I saw the two of you biting back your smiles. Let us hear it.”

  “There was a gentleman at Grifford’s houseparty who drove us to London, by an indirect route. We stopped at his summer home for luncheon and there was a—an accident. He got shot, in the shoulder.”

  “Good gracious! I hope he was not killed. How did it happen?”

  I jumped in, before Perdita could take center stage. "His handyman was shooting rabbits, and somehow or other Stornaway got hit by mistake.”

  "Stornaway! You never mean you had the temer­ity to crawl into a carriage with that rattle! You were fortunate it was not yourselves who were shot. But you could not know anything of the man’s character, of course, living way off at Swindon. He is not the sort of gentleman you ought to have anything to do with, girls. I hear all manner of tales about his mama, who is a bosom-bow of the Prince Regent, you must know. She is often at the Pavilion, in Brighton. Stornaway and his set are wild.”

  After this outbreak, I gave no more details con­cerning our relationship with him. "He was good enough to loan us his carriage to come on here without him in any case,” I said, trying not to show my indignation.

  "You must not speak too hard against Stornaway, Auntie,” Perdita said, with a mischievous smile. "Moira has a tendre for him, I believe. Unfortunate­ly, it was me he fancied, but I do not care for him.”

  "Wise girl! I had as lief see you shackled to Croft. We will keep you away from the likes of Stornaway when we present you. However, there will be no difficulty in that. He is on the verge of marrying Sarnia’s daughter, if one can believe gossip.”

  "The Sarnias have a better opinion of him than you do then, have they?” I asked, hearing and dislik­ing the tone of pique in my voice.

  “Not in the least. It is a marriage of convenience. He is rich and noble—that is all that matters in that tribe. His own family the same. They are all cut from the same bolt, the nobility.”

  Her words sat heavily on my heart. “I hope Stornaway behaved himself?” she asked, looking pretty sharp at my expression.

  “Moira kept him in line,” Perdita said, with un­common reticence. “I am happy to have met him, as it gave me some knowledge firsthand of how rakes act. I had been cautioned, of course, but now I shall recognize one when I meet him, and avoid him.”

  "He did behave badly, then! What did he do?”

  "Nothing, really. He was always flirting, and com­plimenting me,” Perdita said. "Once he tried to kiss me, but Moira wouldn’t let him.”

  “It is only to be expected. Well, girls, it is over now. We shall leave for Brighton tomorrow. Sir Wilfrid knows you are to stay with me, both of you. I could not do without you too, Moira. After we have popped this young Incognita off, you and I shall settle down happily. There is no saying we won’t find a parti for you at Brighton as well. The older bachelors and widowers assemble there, you know. I do not refer to Prinney’s set. There are decent per­sons going to Brighton as well, now that it has become the fashion. You are looking well, Moira,” she added, examining me more closely. "Very well. A sort of a glow—the fresh air of spring must account for it. Yes, certainly we shall find a decent man for you."

  The prospect of a decent man seemed remarkably tame and unsatisfactory to me. I wondered when I might expect to hear from Stornaway. No, really, I wondered if I would hear from him at all. Under his mother’s persuasions, he might be talked out of even sending a note, to render excuses for not seeing us again.

  * * *

  Chapter 19

  Brighton was jolly in the spring. We did not actu­ally get invited to the Prince’s Pavilion, nor would we have been taken if we had. Mrs. Cosgrove held the Prince and his set in great contempt, but we drove past it several times, to admire its domes and gilt, and gardens. We also went shopping, went to Donaldson’s library, went for walks and drives along the coast. We were introduced to Maude’s set, which was enlarged now to include the sons, brothers and nephews of her own cronies. Perdita was soon the leading belle of the city. Her coterie grew quickly to a throng, then a crowd, and finally a squeeze to fill the saloon. Sir Wilfrid sent money from home, Maude sent to Chippenham for our trunks and to pay the bill at the inn, our debt to the Altons was dis­charged. All loose ends were tied up except for my friend at Birdland. Plans were always afoot to ad­vance Perdita in the world.

  "I do believe I shall present her in London in the fall, Moira,” Maude revealed one afternoon. "She is better behaved than I hoped. She has no love for rakes and rattles, as a young girl will often do. You did a good job of rearing her.”

  “Thank you. I did my best for her.”

  “You are sad at the prospect of losing her. You have scarcely smiled since you came. You are losing that healthy glow you had in London. Cheer up, my dear. Your useful days are far from over. You and I shall deal famously after she is married.”

  With such an incomparable as Perdita under the roof, any further mention of finding a bachelor or widower for myself had been forgotten. Even the bachelors and widowers preferred her less mature charms. But the real reason for my lack of smiles was, of course, that no word was heard from Storn­away. Ten days had passed since leaving Birdland, more than enough time for him to have written. Even long enough for him to be back on his feet, to have come in person. That gesture suited his flam­boyant and romantical nature. In my mind, his hellraking had been smoothed over to flamboyance and romanticism, you see.

  I mentally set fourteen days as the longest duration I would go on waiting and hoping. It was on the evening of the tenth day that Mrs. Cosgrove men­tioned, very casually, that “that Stornaway fellow” had been to call while we were out, but she had not encouraged him to return.

  My heart flipped over in my breast. “What did he say?” I asked.

  “He inquired for her—you, both of you. I told him you were both fine, and that I would convey his compliments. He will not be back. He is not slow to grasp a hint; I’ll grant him that. He puts up at the Pavilion, you know, with his mama. The countess is a shabby, fast lady. They say she and the Prince performed a duet at the Pavilion last night. Stornaway left off cards for us to attend a party there this evening, but I threw them out.”

  The Prince and the Pavilion were much discussed by Maude’s set of friends. They disparaged every­thing about it, but in that eager way of the outsider who would, in fact, give an eyetooth to get in. I was astonished to hear she had thrown the tickets into the dustbin, till I saw that they had gone instead into the corner of the framed mirror just inside the front door, for her callers to stare at. “Oh, could we not go?” I asked.

  Her dark eyes slid hungrily to the corner of the mirror. “It would do well enough for you and me, but I cannot like to take Perdita there. Truth to tell, I should like to see inside it myself. Gretta Norton went once, and nev
er stops boasting of it. I have never been in. One hears marvelous, incredible tales of its splendors, and certainly the exterior is a won­der. But it is the likes of Stornaway she would be exposed to, you know, and he is not at all the thing.”

  “How did he look? Was he recovered from his accident?”

  “He had one arm in a black sling, but told me it was a precaution only. He said he had written you at Alton’s. I told him she was gone off to Bromley Hall. Servants are hopeless; they hadn’t the wits to for­ward the letter here.”

  “Did he say he would come back?”

  “No, my dear. You need not fear he will. I most particularly said he would not, to set your mind at rest.”

  Stark dismay overcame me. I could not conceal it, but its cause was misread by my cousin. Her mind was full of those two white cards, stuck into the mirror. “You are regretting the trip to the Pavilion,” she told me. “How should it be possible to take Perdita there, and you? You have neither of you been presented . . . Of course it is a very informal do, not really any official residence either, only a holi­day home. I think . . ." She strode to the mirror and seized the cards. “Yes, it is a masquerade party, which is the very shabbiest sort of a do, but at least one's identity need not be known. We could take a quick peek in, just to see the place, and dart out before the unmasking. It is a May Day party. To­morrow is the first of May. He will soon be going to London for the Season, I expect.”

  “Is it not the custom for the Prince to leave his party first, before the other guests depart?”