by Joan Smith
“It is really quite shocking the way everyone has deserted my aunt. When I came here, she hadn’t had a single caller in a month. People only used her, took advantage of her generosity when she lived on Half Moon Street; and now that she is getting on and is poor, no one comes near her.”
Richard thought he had her meaning now. Mrs. Pealing wished to re-enter Society. “Where do you come into it?” he asked.
“I? I don’t come into it at all. I am her niece. I happen to be visiting her, that’s all.”
“Are you to make your debut this Season?”
“No, my aunt is in no position to sponsor me. It is only a family visit, and a quite dull one it has been, too.”
“She would wish to show you a livelier time, I assume?”
“I’m sure she would, if it were possible. She used to be very sociable, some years ago.”
“I shouldn’t think it would be at all possible, the way you are going about it. You are more likely to alienate your aunt’s former friends than endear yourself to them by blackmail.”
“Blackmail?” she said, not entirely surprised at the charge but angry nevertheless. “We have not threatened nor intimidated anyone, nor done anything illegal. My aunt has merely announced that she is going to publish a few memoirs from her youth.”
“It is tantamount to blackmail to threaten to publish licentious stories and accept payment for not publishing them.”
“Yes, certainly it is, but we are not doing anything of the kind. If people who sponged off my aunt when she was rich have been goaded into repaying their lawful debts to her only because they are so mean-minded they think she intends to expose them in her book, well, it is no more than is her due!”
“It won’t work,” he said and arose from his chair, to tower over her.
“Will it not? We’ll see about that, Your Grace. It has already worked. She has had over twenty-four hundred pounds repaid already, every cent of it coming to her honestly.”
“Yes, with interest, I hear. You’ll find money alone opens no doors. She may bleed people white, but she won’t be invited back into Society. There is some behaviour that puts one beyond the pale of decent society. Divorce and blackmail, for example.”
“She isn’t bleeding anyone! They owe her the money, and why should they not pay interest? They have been getting five percent in the funds. Why should my aunt’s investments pay no interest?”
“Why settle for five percent? The usurers charge fifty. There is a good business tip for you, Miss. Put your ill-got gains out to loan at exorbitant interest rates and you’ll achieve your end sooner. You’ll be rich enough for anything, except common decency."
“Thank you for the advice, Your Grace. I shall be sure to tell where it came from, if I decide to take your advice. Is that how you manage to present so affluent an appearance?”
“Oh, no, I am a gentleman. I merely suggested a notion that I thought might appeal to you. I wish you luck, Ma’am, and look forward to reading an interesting chapter on the amorous exploits of Sir Lawrence, for you’ll find no interest has accrued to you in that quarter.”
“There will be no amorous exploits regarding Sir Lawrence. My aunt said he tried to make love to her, but she took an aversion to his open mouth. She could not like the dull-witted appearance it gave him. You may read that in the book, but you can assure your sister we don’t plan to allege any affair with so unattractive a person. We mean to retain some shred of dignity, you see.”
“You have had time to discover my relationship with Sir Lawrence already? You run an efficient operation. I hope you have taken the precaution of hiring yourself a sharp solicitor. You’ll be hearing from Sir Lawrence’s. I would advise you not to print anything of the sort you mentioned if you don’t wish to be charged with a libel suit.”
“Something must be untrue to be libelous, if I am not mistaken, and the world can see for itself that Sir Lawrence has loose lips,” she flung back.
“I suggest you consult your attorney on the subject of detraction.”
“We don’t have an attorney.”
“High time you hired one. Good day, Ma’am.” He strode angrily from the room and went straight back to Bess to open his budget.
“They aren’t after money,” he said. “They’re getting that, apparently, from people who actually owe the old girl something. What they want from you and others of our sort is the entree to Society.”
“Oh, Dickie, you’ve made a botch of it!” Bess moaned. “I cannot ask that woman here. I’d be the laughing stock of the world. Everyone is talking about her.”
“I don’t propose you should ask her. I haven’t taken leave of my senses."
“What will they do if I don’t?”
“Put Larry into the book, describing in detail, no doubt, how he used to make a puppy of himself dangling after the Pealing. All that old business of his ditching the Marmon girl will be raked up as a result. Yes, and they mean to add a few paragraphs on the condition of his lips, too, I believe.”
“Oh, my God! Pay them. Give them whatever sum it takes. This will ruin his chances for advancement. Go back and take them the whole thousand.”
“I have done better. I am going to have my solicitor see them. Scare them off with the threat of a libel suit.”
“What’s that?”
“It happens to be against the law to defame anyone’s character. Malicious misrepresentations...“
“Yes, Dickie, but it isn’t misrepresentation. He did dangle after her.”
“Well, detraction then, if it’s a criminal offence. There must be some legal trick Willoughby can use. I don’t see why you should give them any money, and I certainly do not advise you to invite them to your home.”
“Never in the world. That is definitely not to be considered.”
“I’ll send Willoughby around to put a scare into them. They don’t have a lawyer. They are just amateurs.”
“No, don’t do that. It will show them we take it too seriously, and will antagonize them too. Offer them money. Enough to keep the woman still.”
‘‘Not one red penny."
“A thousand pounds. I can spare it, and the promotion is worth a good deal more than that. Larry has waited twenty years for it.”
“It wouldn’t satisfy her.”
“It galls me to have to pay that woman, but... How does she look nowadays, by the way?”
“Who, Mrs. Pealing? I didn’t see her. I dealt with the niece.”
“Oh. Pamela said she is fat as a flawn and had her hair dyed blue. How vulgar. What is the niece like?”
“As bold as brass."
“Yes, but what does she look like? They say Effie used to look like her years ago. Is she very pretty?”
“More beautiful than pretty,” he confessed reluctantly.
“Pamela didn’t say she was beautiful. Dark hair, I think?”
“Yes, black as coal. A tall girl.”
Bess knew her brother to prefer tall girls, being so tall himself. Anything under five feet five inches he described as squat. “What about the face? Come now, draw me a picture of her.”
“I didn’t pay much attention,” he said, but still a vivid image of her lurked inside his head. Grey eyes, long lashes, a strong chin, clear complexion.
“Well, when you go back to give them the money, take a good look.”
“I’m not going back.”
“You must. Larry can’t handle it in his position.”
“Write her a letter and enclose a cheque, if you insist on throwing your blunt away. If you don’t mean to follow my advice, I don’t see why you bother me with your problems.”
“Yes, I know you like to have it all your own way, dear, but still I don’t want to resort to an attorney.
“Then you have the choice of paying through the nose or having them here.”
“I’ll write the letter. I can’t have them here.”
“Let me know what they answer. We must get this business straightened out. As well as
Larry’s promotion hanging fire, there is Mama’s brother about to retire from the archbishopric with an unblemished, indeed an excellent, record of achievement. We don’t need any scandal in the family. We have never had it, and it would be a shame if it should come to us through your husband.”
“Well, you are the one who chose him for me, Richard.”
“I chose him? I was in shortcoats when you married, Bess.”
“Oh, my goodness, what made me say that? You looked so very like Papa just now, St. Felix.”
St. Felix was insensibly pleased with this comparison. He did not consciously pattern himself after his father, perhaps, but had he been asked to choose the gentleman he most admired in the world, it might well have been his father. He knew he did not live up to that hero’s high standards—they were the reach beyond the grasp.
At Upper Grosvenor Square, Daphne ran to her aunt the minute St. Felix left the house. Her intention was to tell her the whole disagreeable conversation, but she was diverted by a question.
“What was St. Felix like?”
“Very tall, and very arrogant.”
“His father was tall, too, but never arrogant with me."
“What was your connection with the father? Another suitor?”
“Oh, no, he was married at the time. He was quite a bit older than I.”
The dreamy blue eyes belied the denial of romance. “Come now, confess he was in love with you."
“He may have been, a little, but nothing came of it.”
“When was this, Auntie?” Daphne asked, intending to do a little reading in the pertinent section of the memoirs to satisfy herself.
“Years ago, in 1785, it was, in the Fall.”
This precise recall of the date and season increased Daphne’s suspicions, and she intended to follow it up as soon as possible. “Well, whatever about the father, I do not care for the son. He was quite rude.”
“Really, what did he say?”
It proved impossible to burden her smiling aunt with the whole story, and she said, “He came to offer you money not to mention Sir Lawrence in your book.”
“What nonsense! As if I’d admit to a soul that that ninny ever was sweet on me. I’d pay to keep it a secret. An admirer of his sort adds nothing to one’s reputation.”
“But what I said before is true, Auntie. These people are coming only for fear of what you will write about them.
“I can’t believe that. Lady Pamela was always a good friend, and Major Deitweiller, too, was quite charming.”
“Yes, but if they are coming as friends, why do they all shove money at you?”
“Well, my dear, they do owe me money, and they must see I am not so high in the stirrups as I was used to be. That is what friends are for, to help one when she is down. Repaying a favour—there is no harm in that.”
“No, there is nothing wrong in it; but still we are being taken for a pair of blackmailers.”
Aunt Effie laughed merrily at this comment. It was typical of Sir James Ingleside to look for trouble when there was none, of course, and there was no denying Daphne had something of her father in her. Effie returned to her memoirs, to be disturbed very shortly by a Mrs. Acres, come with her fists full of bills, to enquire how the book went on and to repay dear Effie for that money she had lent her for a little holiday in France when she had been feeling poorly, just after her first husband died. And there was no need to mention in the book that Sir Alfred Dwyer had been in France at the time, was there? Lady Dwyer was not at all understanding, to say nothing of Mr. Acres. It was futile to say once again it was not that kind of a book. The word was out that it was that kind, and the money poured in to buy Mrs. Pealing’s silence.
Chapter 5
The windfall of what now amounted to close to five thousand pounds was soon being done with what Effie considered money ought to be done with—spent. Horses were hired to pull the carriage and, with an easy conveyance available, the ladies naturally took to the roads. Daphne must be shown the Standington mansion on the corner of Half Moon Street and Piccadilly, the Eglinton mansion a block up the street, and various other mansions where Effie had once been accepted and entertained. The young lady expressed no interest in the St. Felix mansion, and the aunt did not offer to point it out.
After their tour they went to Bond Street to peruse the shops. Every ell of blue material drew Aunt Effie’s attention, and before they went home several had been purchased. In vain did Miss Ingleside hint at the efficacy of putting something aside for a rainy day. She was just being James’s daughter and as such was not heeded in the least.
This foray into the world was taken as a hint by the tardy debtors to pay up, and they came in an ever-increasing stream to renew acquaintance with Mrs. Pealing and to shower her with gold. She had a box of it in her room—many avoided cheques—and was soon calling in a decorator to tear down the drapes, lift up the carpets, recover the sofa and chairs and find new lamps.
One cheque, however, caused some little consternation. “Here is a cheque for one thousand pounds from Lady Elizabeth,” Effie said.
“The price has doubled,” Daphne replied. “St. Felix mentioned five hundred. Now what can it mean?”
“I told you Larry owes me nothing.”
“And I told you St. Felix thinks we are blackmailing people.”
“Oh, my dear, and St. Felix of all people! I would not have him think ill of us.”
“What is so special about him?”
“His father was a very dear friend. I told you, Daphne.”
“Your eyes tell me he was a good deal more. Come now, Auntie, cut line and tell me the whole of it, if you please.” The diaries had contained a good many references to St. Felix, and later, George, who were one and the same, but they had been couched in an unaccustomed discreetness. “George came this evening,” for instance, occurred frequently, and on those evenings there seemed to be no other callers admitted, which was unusual, but two of the diary pages had been ripped out. The jagged edge and lapse of time in the Fall of 1785 held a promise of some great happening, but Effie was an oyster on the subject.
“There is nothing to tell. Just friends. But what shall I do with the cheque?”
“Return it. Then he will see we are not blackmailing anyone."
“I can’t write to her.”
“It is a strange way to treat a dear old friend’s children—to avoid them as though they were the plague.”
“He was so very nice, Daphne. I hate to think of his children having such a low opinion of me. You write a little note, will you, dear, with some of those punctuation marks you do so well, and I’ll sign it.”
“Very well, I shall.”
The note was written, the cheque enclosed and received as a threatening letter the next day at Charles Street, where Lady Elizabeth went into a fit of strong hysterics and sent for her brother to come at once.
On this occasion, he answered the summons promptly. “They have sent it back,” Bess moaned, waving the cheque under Richard’s nose.
He scanned the elegantly phrased little note and rightly imagined the hand of Miss Ingleside in the reference to “a mistake in your accounting.”
“They’re holding out for an invitation to the house,” Richard declared. “Don’t do it, Bess. Don’t let our family be the one to let that pair get a toe into the door of Society.”
“Yes, but what if they put Larry into their book? The whole town will read how he made a fool of himself over her.”
Richard felt this was the lesser of the two evils to be mentioned. There was something degrading about having one’s physical imperfections paraded in shameful print. “I’ll send Willoughby over,” he said.
“No, I must conciliate them. I know you don’t like it, Richard, but I shall handle it discreetly. I’ll have a small tea party, invite no one who matters. I must silence her.”
“They won’t be fobbed off with any little token do of that sort. Don’t do anything for the present. Let them simmer a while.
The book is spoken of as not coming out for a year. Larry will have his appointment before that without our having to deal with them at all.”
“All the worse, to have it come out after he is famous—to have his moment of glory sullied so disgracefully! I won’t stand for it, I tell you. I’ll ask her here first—to my ball—I ask everyone to that. She won’t be noticed in the crowd.”
“They are pointed out when they drive down Bond Street and in the Park. Everyone knows them by sight now. They are becoming the talk of the town.”
“What is to be done?” Bess wailed in frustration.
“Do nothing. I’ll handle it, as I have always managed your problems in the past. Let me think about it. We must have a plan. I’ll talk to some people—see how they are handling her.”
“Very well, I’ll wait awhile, but I don’t mean to let it hang fire for long. My nerves can’t take it.”
St. Felix posed a few discreet questions, ostensibly on behalf of a “friend,” and learned that the manner of dealing with Mrs. Pealing was to do exactly as she wished. He had never seen Mrs. Pealing; his quarrel was with Miss Ingleside, and he had no intention of letting her win this fall with him. But he soon became aware that she won every match she entered. Not only was she—and of course, that disreputable aunt—lining her purse, but she was beginning to go about to the odd party, as well. The girl was not making her debut, so at least one would not meet her at formal do’s. Soon even this shred of relief was snatched from him.
When the list of the young debutantes to be presented to the Queen was printed in the Gazette, Miss Ingleside’s name was amongst them. The debts had been coming in in such a heady stream that even this was to be afforded. It was not Mrs. Pealing, a divorcee, who was to be her official sponsor, but a Mrs. Wintlock. Now who the devil is Mrs. Wintlock, he wondered.
She was not only a friend of the Inglesides from Wiltshire, but a distant connection of Sir James on her husband’s side, and she knew them to be a very good family. Her daughter, Stephanie, a good-natured and not overly pretty girl, had attended the same ladies’ seminary as Daphne and the two were friends. Having come to London to present her own youngest, she had been delighted to meet Daphne on Bond Street and took for granted she, too, was to make her bows. When she discovered her error, she set up a string of letters to Ingleside Manor that once again threw the house into an uproar.