by Joan Smith
A few days passed in this pleasant manner, and when Effie’s party rolled around, not a single visitor came to attend it. They did not invite St. Felix, not for fear he would stay away, but for fear he would come and be the only guest. The two of them ate as much lobster and chantilly and drank as much champagne as they could hold in an attempt to be merry, but the pervading atmosphere was one of darkest gloom.
“How can we possibly show our faces at a ball, when no one comes to us?” Daphne asked. “Even Lady Elizabeth didn’t come.”
She would have done had her brother known anything of the matter, but in his ignorance he didn’t push her to it, and she had enough sense not to mention it to him. She hoped her absence would give the ladies the hint they were not overly welcome at her ball, but as the important evening drew near, she received their acceptances. St. Felix had wheedled and cajoled them out of an immediate remove to Bath, and, as they were in London with so little to do, they were eventually talked into accepting the invitation. Neither lady was completely happy about it, and it would have taken no more than a sniffle for them both to call off; but no sniffle or sneeze befriended them, and when the day of the ball dawned bright and clear and healthy, they sat together over breakfast, inquiring minutely into each other’s condition.
“We could say our gowns aren’t ready,” Daphne suggested.
“Mine wants hemming,” Effie offered, ready to grasp at any weak little straw.
“He’ll be here before noon to see we mean to go through with it,” Daphne cautioned, hoping for a stronger excuse.
During his recent visits to the apartment, he had become such a dictator in the matter of the ball that a better pretext than an unhemmed gown in mid-morning was called for.
“I’ll tell him I feel a fever coming on,” Effie decided.
Daphne looked at her askance. “You’ll have to stay in your room then and let me tell him, or put flour on your cheeks. You are blooming, Auntie.”
“I don’t feel at all well,” the aunt replied. “It’s the fever that’s making me pink.”
They both sat on in silence, their minds working hard at an excuse that might pass muster with the dictator. “I feel positively unwell,” Effie repeated a moment later.
“You,” Daphne began, then stopped, for Aunt Effie no longer looked fine. She had turned stark, bone white. “Oh—not a feeling! Wild horses wouldn’t drag me to this ball if you have a premonition about it. There is some horrid surprise in store for us, I know it. I think I feel it myself,”
“There’s something in the air all right,” Effie said, as the first jolt of her feeling passed off.
“Has it to do with the ball?” Daphne demanded, a firm believer in her aunt’s supernatural powers.
A little smile hovered around Effie’s lips and her colour returned. “No, I don’t think so,” she answered. "It was—it was Arthur, dear,” she said.
“You had an intimation he was coming before, but he never showed.”
“No, I only felt he was thinking about me before, but now I feel he is coming.”
“What about the ball? That doesn’t tell us what we should do about that. Try to have a feeling about it, Effie.”
Effie obediently closed her eyes and tried to gain a sensation regarding the ball, but she drew a blank. “I don’t feel a thing,” she announced after a few moments. “I just can’t picture us there at all, but that doesn’t mean we shan’t go. These feelings come of their own accord. I had no warning of the Deitweiller do, you remember? Sometimes I know what’s going to happen and sometimes I don’t. It’s extremely annoying, but it’s a gift, you know.” This satisfied her as to any vagaries in the matter, and she lifted up the Morning Observer to see what was new in the world.
She read aloud a few items of little interest to herself and none to her niece, but failed to find mention that Lord Standington was come to England, which was what she was really looking for. She was about to lay the paper aside when her eyes suddenly darted back to a notice. “What’s this?”
“What is it?” Daphne echoed her.
“The Dowager Duchess of St. Felix is come up from Kent, paying a visit to her family at Belgrave Square. Daphne, St. Felix’s wife is in town!”
“His mother, you mean. This is the end. We can’t possibly go to Lady Elizabeth’s ball if she is to be there. St. Felix knew nothing of this when he urged us to attend. It would be quite improper for you to go, and I obviously can’t go alone. We’ll tell him when he comes. He is sure to understand.” The looked-for excuse had been found but brought a woeful sense of letdown with it. The day, to have been busy with preparations for the ball, now yawned before them with nothing to brighten it.
“Thank God for that,” Effie said, better pleased than her niece.
Another letdown was in store for Miss Ingleside. St. Felix, who had spent nearly as much time with them lately as he spent at his own home or anywhere else, did not come. It did not occur to the ladies that he might be busy running around town performing last-minute chores for his sister’s ball and his mother’s attendance at it. They did receive two corsages from him to be worn for the occasion. Both were put in vases to set in the Blue Saloon as a constant reminder that they would not be worn. Daphne was completely in the dumps, but her aunt was not aware of it. She went ahead with all preparations for a grande toilette despite its having been firmly established between them that they were not going to attend the ball.
“There is no saying what might happen before the day’s out,” Aunt Effie smiled happily, and had the hair dresser do her hair in an elaborate style that Daphne suspected was copied from Gloxinia, for it managed to be both vulgar and old-fashioned. It required only the sticking on of two ostrich feathers to be ready for anything.
“Get yours done up, too, love. You don’t know where you might end up this night,” Effie pleaded.
“We’ll end up right in this Blue Saloon, and I don’t mean to give myself a headache for that.” She spent a long, tiring afternoon sitting with a book in her lap, looking out the window and waiting for a visit from St. Felix, who in some magical manner was to make it not only possible for her to go to his sister’s ball with Aunt Effie but impossible for her not to. When the afternoon wore on and still he did not come, she began seeking reasons for it. His mama’s arrival had made it impossible for them to go, and he was ashamed to come and tell them so. He counted on their discretion to stay away. That she had never displayed a jot of discretion in any of her other dealings with him was forgotten. She knew he was aware of their subscribing to the Observer and their addiction to the social column since they had attended those few parties. He had not mentioned asking his mother to hostess his own ball, so Daphne had no way of realizing his feelings in the matter. He was quite clearly hinting them away.
While Miss Ingleside suffered her tedious vigil, Effie bustled about in a state near euphoria. She hummed off key all day long, driving her niece to the edge of distraction. Her blue eyes glowed, her pink cheeks bloomed, and her hair, freshly tinted by the coiffeur, positively gleamed. She babbled on that it was fortunate they had so much champagne left over from the party, for Arthur liked it excessively. It was a pity the lobster couldn’t have been saved, too, but she had Cook run out for a large saddle of mutton. A dozen times she congratulated herself for having had the front room done over and looked happily at the new acquisitions. When dinner-time came, she told the servants to lay three places.
“Who is coming?” Daphne enquired eagerly, wondering with a lift of elation if St. Felix was to join them and she had in some manner not been informed of it.
“There is no saying when he will get here,” Effie told her.
“Who?” Daphne asked, smiling herself now.
“Arthur, my dear. I told you about my feeling at breakfast. He is coming; I know it.”
Daphne’s faith in her aunt’s powers was sinking, as was her faith in everything at the tag-end of this interminable day. “Don’t pin too much hope on it,” she advised
.
“No, to be sure I am not, love. I’ll just tell Cook to make sure she puts on an extra serving of green peas, for Arthur was always fond of them.”
The third place went unoccupied when the ladies finally sat down to dinner. The extra peas were wasted, and a bottle of champagne half drunk without a single compliment on its excellence. It might have been vinegar for all the note either of them took of it. They returned to the Blue Saloon to resume waiting for what Daphne was now convinced was to be nothing more exciting than a cup of tea and a hand of piquet before going to bed. The only difference from their early evenings together was that Effie was dressed as fine as five pence in a blue crepe gown, fingering two blue ostrich feathers, sitting on the very edge of a chair and jumping a foot at every rattle of windows or sound of a carriage passing in the streets.
The clock chimed nine, and even Effie’s ebullience began to wear thin. “Is it possible he’s not coming?” she asked, genuinely perplexed.
“I’m afraid it is not only possible but certain," Daphne said. No sooner were the words out than there was a footfall on the front step, followed by a tapping of the knocker. The ladies looked at each other. Each was sure the caller was for herself and felt a little sorry for the other. While they sat looking and breathing faster, the butler announced Lord Standington, and into the room stepped a little leprechaun of a man not quite five feet tall, with sharp black eyes and a flying wisp of white hair, much longer on one side than the other, till he felt it tickle his ear, and with a swipe of his hand had it espaliered across his skull to cover his baldness.
“Effie!” he said, and stood drinking up the charm of blue hair, blue gown, blue eyes, and white cheeks, for they had faded at his entrance.
“Arthur!” she answered, similarly enthralled with her view.
Daphne stared in patent disbelief at this dwarf, whom she was accustomed to hearing spoken of both at home and at Effie’s as a “fine figure of a man.” Love was indeed blind in this case.
“You’ve changed,” he said, his black eyes darting all over Effie.
Miss Ingleside felt he was in no case himself to be finding fault with the ravages of time wrought on the once-beautiful Effie but soon realized her error. “You’re prettier than ever!” he declared at the end of his inspection. He bounced forward to grab Effie’s dimpled arms in his brown hands and shake her in a transport of delight.
“You’ve changed, too, Arthur,” was her aunt’s besotted reply, its dulcet tone and attendant smiles removing any hint that the change had not been for the better. “You’re wearing your hair differently."
Daphne assumed he had not been wearing it so sparsely when he was a young man.
“Aye, and you’ve changed your hair, too,” Arthur told her with a critical glance. “It looks nice. Blue always suited you best.”
“You didn’t use to think so, Arthur,” Effie teased him with a coy smile.
“Now don’t you get to teasing me about the skirts so soon, naughty puss. I never look at one these days.” As he spoke he espied Daphne looking at him, and his sharp black eyes began making an assessment of her charms.
“Well, I always liked blue,” Effie said, but the words themselves conveyed nothing. All was in the tone, the smile, the white and brown fingers that were now entwined.
“Who’s the young lady?” Arthur demanded, trying to give his full attention to them both at once.
“This is my sister Mary’s girl, Miss Ingleside,” Effie said.
Arthur felt he had been short-changed to have been deprived of the mother’s acquaintance all these years but was ready to make it up with the daughter.
“You’re very like your aunt, you know,” he congratulated Daphne.
“Thank you, Sir. So I have been told. I expect you two have many things to talk over, and I shall retire now. I am pleased to have met you, Lord Standington.”
“We’ll certainly be meeting again,” he said, smacking his lips in anticipation.
As she left the room, Daphne heard Arthur turn to Effie and tease her. “Now what’s this nonsense I read about you writing a book? All a hum, I suppose. You never could write.”
Chapter 13
Daphne crept up to her room noiselessly so as not to disturb the lovers, who she was convinced were staging a reconciliation in the Blue Saloon. She was happy for Effie—it was what she had wanted for the past thirty years, and it gave her aunt a place to go where she would be welcome. It would have been difficult to convince Papa to take her in, particularly if he heard of the mangle they had made of this Season in London. But he would not hear—he would be told only that Effie was to remarry Lord Standington and so Daphne had decided to return home. It gave her an unexceptionable excuse to do so, and she would be spared the holiday at Bath, which held no novel charms for her as it was only ten miles from her own home and a spot familiar to her without having any particularly pleasant associations. Its valetudinarian population was of only minimal interest to a healthy young girl. Effie was a large-hearted lady to forgive Standington for divorcing her and leaving it to another man to defend her honour, but she was not blameless herself, either. Daphne hoped the marriage would take this time.
She looked at her clock—it was nine-thirty and she was in no hurry to face a sleepless night. Aunt Effie might expect her to go belowstairs to congratulate them a little later, and for this reason she delayed getting undressed and spent the next half hour folding up her lingerie preparatory to packing for her trip home. She worked slowly, her mind wandering off on strange tangents that left her standing for five minutes with a nightgown hanging from her fingers while her eyes looked off into the distance, seeing things that never were and, she feared, never would be.
It was after ten o’clock when a servant tapped on her door and said there was a caller to see her in the study. She didn’t have to enquire who the caller was. She hadn’t had but one for the past several days. She knew as surely as Effie had known Arthur was coming that St. Felix was downstairs, waiting to scold her once again. She went with a remarkably light heart to hear the chastisement.
Had she thought about it for a moment, she would have known he would be in full evening dress, having come from his sister’s ball; but she pictured him, as she always saw him, in day clothing and was surprised to find him all in black, looking even more elegant than usual, every inch the duke, and very severe. She was no sooner inside the door than he turned his dark, wrathful eyes on her and stared in silence for half a minute. When he spoke, it was not in the tone of a tirade with which she was familiar and well able to deal, but in low, offended accents. “Why didn’t you come?” he asked. “You promised me you would be there.” She had to listen closely to hear him.
“You know it was impossible. We read in the paper this morning of your mother’s arrival in town.”
“All the more reason. I most particularly want her to meet you.”
“I don’t suppose you particularly want her to meet my aunt.”
“She has met your aunt and has no objection to doing so again. And, in any case, that was no excuse for you to stay away.”
“I couldn’t very well go alone.”
“You know I would have been happy to come for you. You could have sent me a note—let me know of your change of plans."
“I meant to tell you when you came—that is—I thought you might drop around during the day, as you have been doing.”
“It was impossible for me to come. I haven’t had a minute to spare the whole day long. I hardly had time to get into my evening costume. It’s only ten o’clock. There is still time.”
“No, no. I am not ready for the ball, and it’s after ten o’clock. My hair not done and nothing to wear.”
“You have a gown—you planned to come as late as yesterday,” he pointed out angrily.
“Well, I am not wearing my gown and couldn’t possibly get ready in time. Go back to your sister’s—you shouldn’t have left.”
“I am not leaving till you agree to come w
ith me,” he said, and, walking to the chair, he sat down and crossed his legs and arms, as if to stay the night if necessary.
“Oh, how stubborn you are! Don’t think to push me into going there looking a quiz, for I shan’t do it.” Yet every bone in her body wanted to do just that.
“If you stay here, I stay, and it is a very nice party we are missing. I was looking forward to dancing with you. You promised me you would see me dance to your tune, too.”
“I didn’t mean at a ball.”
“Call Aunt Effie. We’ll let her decide.”
“No, we can’t disturb her. Oh—I didn’t tell you! Lord Standington arrived an hour ago, and they are cooing like lovebirds in the Blue Saloon."
“Is he indeed here?” he asked. This news was sufficiently interesting to prod him out of his pucker. “You think he means to take her back?”
“Yes, and it beats me why she should have him, for he is a midget. I always pictured him more—I don’t know. Taller, and more handsome. He is a very toadstool of a man.”
“But no mushroom. A fine old family, and well to grass, too. Effie needs that. It would be the making of her if he’d marry her again.”
‘‘I am convinced he came for no other reason."
“I’m delighted to hear it. But about my reason for coming?”
“Your reason has less chance of prospering. None, in fact.”
Seeing she was adamant, he changed his tack. “May I bring Mama here, then?”
“When, tonight?”
“Yes, right away."
“You can’t bring her here.”
“Then come with me. Everyone is asking for you."
“And assuming, no doubt, that I was not invited.”
“Perhaps at first, but the family has been at considerable pains to let the world know you have been induced to accept, and I cannot believe you will be cut on this occasion.”
“No, for I shan’t be there to give the world another chance.”