by Jane Ashford
“You have a new haircut,” she said at last.
“Yes. My sister has taken me in hand.”
“Your… Oh, of course. I had forgotten she lives in London.” Anabel felt an irrational chagrin. Christopher’s sister would shepherd him through the intricacies of the season. He would need none of her feeble help.
“I must present you to her.”
“That would be pleasant.”
They had never been so carefully polite to each other before, and both felt and regretted the change. Abruptly Hanford relented. “You may tell me I look ridiculous if you like. I certainly feel it in these borrowed plumes.”
“But you don’t.” Anabel looked squarely at him for the first time since his approach. “You look wonderful, Christopher. Very handsome indeed. As many would agree, from what I have seen tonight.”
So she had noticed his dancing, he thought, his spirit lightening a little.
“I suppose your sister is gratified that you are ready to settle on a wife?”
“Oh yes. She pushed all the debs on me.”
“It is lucky you have such a zealous sponsor.” Anabel’s tone was sour, though she didn’t hear it herself. Hanford smiled. “It was prodigious kind of you to include Georgina among your partners.”
At this evidence that she had followed his progress closely, Hanford was even further cheered. “Miss Goring is an amiable girl.”
It really had been kind, Anabel thought. Christopher remained the generous, selfless man he had always been. He deserved a flawless wife. Anabel, acknowledging this, wondered why she could not be happy about the prospect.
“Have you enjoyed the ball?” he asked.
“Oh yes. It is much more grand than any I had seen before.”
“Indeed. I suppose we shall both be surprised by a number of things in London before we return home again.”
Anabel frowned up at him, trying to interpret this remark, but he whirled her suddenly around and forced her to turn her attention to her feet.
Six
Anabel woke the following morning conscious of a feeling of lassitude. Her memories of the ball were less exhilarating than she had expected. A pall seemed to hang over them. And as she washed and dressed and walked downstairs to breakfast, she felt tired and slightly headachy. What was wrong with her? she wondered. Surely any woman should be satisfied with a night like the last. She had danced every dance and been complimented on her looks several times. She had had the success of a young girl rather than the sedate entertainment of a widow, and she had enjoyed it very much. Never in her life had she been the focus of such varied and favorable attentions. Yet now she felt restless and irritable for no cause. It was extremely odd.
Her mother was already seated in the breakfast room with her morning letters and a boiled egg. As Anabel slipped into her chair Lady Goring looked up and said, “Your cousin Amory is very pleased with Vienna. And they will have a fourth child in the spring.”
Anabel nodded, not deeply interested in this news of her diplomatic cousin today. She poured herself a cup of tea and drank half of it quickly.
Lady Goring had opened another letter. “Julia Richards is a grandmother again,” she said. “That must be the sixth…no, the seventh time. They are certainly a prolific family.”
Anabel remained silent.
“Are you all right, dear? You look rather tired.”
“I am, a little. I suppose I am not accustomed to late nights.”
“You should have slept this morning. Your eyes are quite heavy.”
“I’ll be fine.” A servant had brought hot toast, and Anabel took some and began to eat.
Lady Goring read her mail. The ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece was the only sound in the room for some time. Finally she put down the last envelope and refilled her teacup. “I wonder where Georgina… Oh, there you are, dear. Did you sleep well?”
Georgina Goring, who had just entered the room, nodded as if abstracted. She was carrying a flat silver-paper box and a reticule clutched to her chest. Instead of going to her chair, she walked directly up to Lady Goring. “I want to give you these,” she said breathlessly.
“What are they, dear?”
“Chocolates,” she replied, putting the box down quickly, as if afraid she might not be able to do it. “And this is the pocket money my father gave me.” She placed the reticule beside the box. “I want you to keep it for me, to use when we are shopping or…or something.”
Lady Goring looked puzzled. “But, Georgina, you can manage your own allowance. I—”
“If you have it, I can’t buy more chocolates,” gasped the girl. She was finding the conversation very difficult, but she was determined to carry through.
“Can’t…” Lady Goring’s puzzled frown slowly shifted to surprise, then to amazed delight. “My dear Georgina, do you mean that you are taking my advice at last? How splendid! You will be very glad in the end, I promise you.”
“Yes.” Georgina did not sound very certain. She turned and started to leave the room.
“Where are you going?”
“To my room. I shall be upstairs if you want me.”
“But you haven’t had any breakfast. Sit down and let me ring for fresh tea.”
Georgina gazed longingly at the table, with its toast racks and pots of jam, then at the sideboard, where chafing dishes held eggs and bacon, and a cold ham beckoned enticingly. She swallowed, her face anguished, then shook her head. “I…I’m not hungry.”
“Not… Nonsense, of course you are hungry. It is very wise of you to give up sweets, Georgina, but you cannot stop eating altogether. Come and have a little. That is all you need do, you know, simply eat a little at each meal rather than…” Lady Goring let the sentence trail off, not wanting in any way to mar this miracle.
“That is harder than having nothing,” wailed Georgina.
“Nonsense,” replied her hostess again. “Come, sit down.”
Slowly she did so. Anabel, who had been watching this exchange with some amusement, greeted her. Lady Goring beamed as she hurried to make up a frugal plate for her niece. Grimacing, Georgina began to eat.
Anabel could not resist probing a little for the cause of this change. “Did you enjoy the ball last night, Georgina?” she asked.
The girl seemed to find the question difficult. Finally she said, “Yes,” in a tone that implied the negative as well.
“I saw you dancing with Mr. Hanford. I thought he looked very well in his new evening clothes.”
Georgina’s gray eyes abruptly shone. “Mr. Hanford is the most wonderful gentleman I have ever met!”
Lady Goring glanced meaningfully at her daughter, conveying a mutual understanding of Georgina’s motives while hiding her own curiosity as to how Anabel would take this schoolgirl crush. She was certain of Christopher Hanford’s feelings, but she was by no means privy to Anabel’s.
Anabel was struggling with a violent, unreasoning annoyance. It was just like Christopher to encourage such a ridiculous passion, without being the least aware of doing so, of course. He was so kind to everyone. But he should realize that here in town things were quite different. Girls were not the daughters of old friends who could correctly interpret his behavior for their offspring. And the season naturally raised certain expectations. Its most exclusive assembly was known as the “marriage mart,” after all. He was liable to find himself in a very awkward situation. Perhaps she should speak to him.
It was then that she remembered Christopher was in town to find a wife, and last night he had danced with every pretty ninnyhammer at the ball. He didn’t require her advice. Far from it! But perhaps Georgina did. Looking across at her, Anabel frowned a little. Georgina had not begun eating again; she was gazing at the wall with a rapt expression. “He is certainly very kind,” said Anabel. “I have rarely known a man so mindful of others’ fee
lings.”
“Oh, yes,” agreed Georgina.
“Indeed, it is so marked that it is sometimes misinterpreted.” Anabel, her attention focused on Georgina, did not see her mother’s satisfaction at this remark. “On several occasions I have seen people make more of it than he meant.”
The girl nodded. “I can see how that would happen. One must go beyond trivialities and discover true motives.” She contemplated this a moment. “He danced with all those girls last night because they were pretty and amusing,” she went on. “He thinks I am intelligent, however. And if I were also pretty…” She pushed away her plate and stood up. “I think I will go walking in the park this morning, aunt.”
Lady Goring, who had been suppressing a smile, blinked. She had repeatedly urged Georgina to take exercise. “Splendid, my dear. Take your maid with you.”
Nodding, the girl went out.
“Well!” said her aunt, gazing at Anabel expectantly. “What do you think of that.”
Anabel also rose. Georgina’s reasoning had shaken her. Christopher had called her intelligent, and if the girl’s looks did improve under her new regimen, might he not possibly find the wife he desired in her? “Oh, it is all ridiculous!” she snapped, refusing to think about the implications of her feelings.
Lady Goring’s eyes danced. “Well, I don’t care why it is happening. I am only glad that Georgina has decided to do as I asked. I had nearly given up in despair.” Savoring Anabel’s mulish expression, she added, “Georgina will be a very pretty girl indeed if she slims, don’t you think?”
“Doubtless.” Anabel’s tone was curt. “I shall be in my room if you want me, Mama.” She swept out, leaving Lady Goring free to allow her pleased smile to spread across her face.
Striding quickly up the stairs, Anabel was oblivious to everything but her own ill temper. Everyone was being so stupid. Why couldn’t Christopher behave as he always had? It was not that she begrudged him a season in London, she told herself, but he was almost certain to fall into a scrape. She was only thinking of him.
Immersed in her excuses, Anabel did not notice two small faces peering through the stair rails on the top landing. She moved off below them toward her bedchamber, frowning, and they watched her go.
“Mama looks angry,” said Susan in a low voice. “Isn’t she coming up to see us before lessons? She always did at home.”
“I don’t know,” answered Nicholas. “I suppose not.”
“Is Uncle Christopher taking us to the play today? He promised he would.”
Her brother sighed. This was not the first time, nor the twentieth, that Susan had asked this question. “He did not set a day. I’m sure he will do so when he has the time.”
Susan stood, gripping the rails with her fists. “I hate it here!”
Nick nodded heavily. “Come along to the schoolroom. We must find William and have a council.”
William was already there, sitting at the battered schoolroom table and scowling at an open book. He looked up when they came in. “I can’t do this, Nick,” he said. “Each time I work it out, I get a different answer. You must help me again.”
“In a moment,” replied his brother absently. “Just now we must decide something.”
“What?” The older male Wyndham turned in his chair.
The others joined him at the ancient table. The schoolroom was a large, wide-windowed chamber near the top of the house, filled with cast-off furniture from downstairs and the discarded toys and books of generations of Gorings. It was a comfortable, unpretentious place, but it was not their schoolroom and their mother was seldom in it, so the Wyndhams disliked it.
“We must make up our minds what we are going to do,” declared Nicholas, putting his elbows on the tabletop and his chin in his hand.
“Are you still thinking of that?” William was resigned.
“I want to go home!” insisted Susan, her green eyes glinting and her red hair brilliant in the shaft of sunlight from the window.
“I know, Susan, but we cannot,” explained her elder brother.
“We might,” objected Nicholas, “if we could just think of a plan.”
“A plan,” scoffed William.
“Try!” Nick’s plea was so intense that all three frowned in thought, Susan’s small face screwed up comically.
“You could pretend to be ill,” William said to Nicholas then.
Nick, who had been considered sickly as a very small boy and strongly resented reminders of his weakness, answered, “Or you could fall into a truly dreadful scrape.”
William scowled. He was prone to scrapes, often the result of his slower wits in carrying out one of his brother’s plans. Susan looked interested.
“Or Susan could throw a particularly nasty temper tantrum,” added Nick. “But I do not think any of those things would serve. Mama might simply send us home and remain here herself.”
This prospect was so awful that they gazed at one another solemnly for a long moment. Then Susan jumped as if kicked. “Oh!”
“What?” said her brothers simultaneously.
She pointed toward the windows. Outside, on the narrow ledge, stalked Daisy, his bulk seeming much too wide for his perch. He was not looking at them but rather at a hapless sparrow twittering a few feet ahead.
“She’ll fall!” shrieked Susan, leaping up and running to the window. “And if anyone sees her outside my room, she will be sent away. William! Nicholas! Do something!” Her screams frightened the bird, which flew away.
Daisy paused, disgusted, his eyes turning to glare at his small mistress. He seemed quite comfortable on the window ledge.
“Don’t be frightened, Daisy,” said Susan. “We will get you down.” She whirled to gaze at her brothers.
They rose reluctantly, particularly Nicholas. William carried his chair over to the window and climbed onto it to reach the catch. Then he threw up the sash and reached for the cat. Daisy backed away with a hiss.
“Daisy, come here!” commanded Susan. She started to scramble up beside William. The chair wobbled.
“Look out!” Nick cried.
With a shout from William, the chair toppled backward, flinging him heavily to the floor, with Susan kicking and protesting on top of him. Nick ran to see if they were all right. As he bent to help them up Daisy stuck his nose across the windowsill, took in the situation, and leaped solidly onto Nick’s bent back, claws fully extended. They dug through the boy’s coat and shirt to his skin and jerked him upright with a howl. Daisy jumped to the floor and ran under a convenient bookshelf.
“Devil take that cat!” cried Nick, with great satisfaction in at last having an opportunity to use an expression picked up from a stable boy. He snatched up the book William had been using and looked for Daisy, but the cat was well beyond his reach by this time.
“Nick!” screamed Susan. He put down the book.
William was on his feet, brushing the dust from his coat and looking intensely annoyed. “Of all the stupid—”
“I have it!” cried Nicholas. “It came to me just now.” He noticed the others’ blank stares with impatience. “The plan.”
William pressed an elbow and winced. “Oh no.”
“It’s a good one. Listen, what do we dislike most about London?”
“No fields. We hardly ever get out,” responded William.
“Too many people telling us what to do,” said Susan at the same time.
“Yes, yes. But that is not what we hate most.” Nicholas paused for effect.
“Mama is always occupied or out,” supplied Susan.
Her brother frowned at this anticipation of his words but nodded. “We were accustomed to seeing her every day, for hours. Now we never do. And she is always thinking of something else.”
“We know that,” said William.
“Well, let us do the same to her. Then
she will see how unpleasant it is here.”
“What do you mean?” They frowned at him.
“We must be too busy to see her. We must pretend that we have no time for visits and that we are interested in other things.”
“But we are not!” exclaimed Susan. “There is nothing to be interested in here.” She indicated the room with disgust.
“I know, Susan, but if we act as if there is, Mama will miss us just as we miss her, and she will take us home again, where we can all be comfortable.”
“She will?”
William looked doubtful. “I don’t know, Nicky. This sounds like one of your harebrained schemes. Mama hardly notices what we do lately. She won’t care.”
“She doesn’t notice because we are just as we always were. If we changed, she would wonder soon enough. I only worry that Susan will forget and spoil the whole plan.”
“I can do anything you can do,” protested his sister at once. But she looked confused. “What am I to do?”
“Just pretend you do not care whether Mama comes to us or not, and that you have a great many more interesting things to do when she does.”
Susan’s full lower lip protruded. “That will be very hard.”
“It will, Nick,” agreed William. “I don’t know if I can do it. Without Mama…”
“We shall have each other,” insisted Nicholas. “And we must always remember that playing our parts will get us home again and make things as they used to be.” He looked from one to the other. “Will you try?”
William and Susan had learned to trust Nick’s intelligence. After a moment they nodded.
“Good, here is what we must—”
The door opened, and a tall, spare young woman entered. “You are all here. Splendid. We can begin at once.”
Nicholas closed his mouth, and the three children shuffled into their chairs around the table. In the country their mother had supervised their lessons each morning, but here in London Lady Goring had insisted on a governess. Miss Tate was neither unkind nor unamusing, but she was still a stranger, and her substitution for Lady Wyndham made the children slow to warm to her. They did their lessons and generally obeyed her commands but did not offer confidences or affection as yet.