by Amanda Scott
Indeed, since she lacked the height and willowy figure (not to mention the vast fortune) required to be considered a diamond of the first water, in most gatherings of highborn young females her appearance would have occasioned little remark. That she was generally popular despite these deficiencies could be attributed to her generous spirit and vivacious personality, although neither quality was particularly noticeable when, as was presently the case, Miss Hardy suffered from boredom.
She was curled up on a claw-footed sofa in the library’s west-window embrasure, doing her best to forget the chilly, gray October day outside by concentrating on this latest offering from the pen of the author who currently enjoyed her greatest favor, but it was slow going. She found herself constantly wondering why Sir Bartholomew Lancelot did not wring his beloved’s graceful swanlike neck instead of worshipping the ground she trod upon.
When the heavy, carved door of the library swung open, Carolyn looked up from her book with a frown of annoyance occasioned more by her irritation with Miss Laura than with the interruption, but her grim look was enough to halt in her tracks the thin, mousy-looking lady who had opened the door.
“Oh dear,” Miss Judith Pucklington said, hitching more securely onto her shoulders the several shawls with which she had draped her meager body, “I don’t wish to intrude, but Shields informed me that there was a fire in here, and I thought—”
“Come in, Puck, do,” Carolyn said instantly. “You look half frozen, which is not to be wondered at, I’m sure, since I believe this may well be the only warm room in the house, except for Sydney’s snuff room, of course, but you will not wish to be sitting in there.”
“Goodness me, no,” Miss Pucklington replied, still poised on the threshold like a timid bird ready to take flight at the least hint of danger. “I should never go into that room without his leave. Indeed, I should not have entered this one had Shields not assured me that Cousin Sydney is still away from home.”
Carolyn chuckled, setting her book aside and daintily stretching her limbs, cramped after more than two hours of reading. “’Tis the odious smell of snuff that keeps me from invading that particular sanctum of his, but nothing more. Surely you do not fear Sydney, Puck!”
“Oh, no,” Miss Pucklington protested, distressed, “for although Cousin Olympia has frequently insisted that he had a most violent temper as a child, one simply cannot credit it, for he is always most kind, although I cannot like his man—so odd looking, you know, and Ching Ho being such a queer name—but I should never presume, in any case.” Her gaze drifted wistfully to the hearth. “What a very large fire that is, to be sure.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” Carolyn agreed, regarding the leaping blaze with satisfaction. “I found that I couldn’t see to read if I sat near the fire, and I was freezing here by the window, so I directed the youngest footman—Abel, I think his name is, although even after more than three weeks of living here, I cannot keep all the servants’ names straight in my head—”
“Oh, dear me, no. There are ever so many.”
“Yes, well, Sydney does like his comforts, and he can afford them, I daresay, thanks to his Uncle Henry Beauchamp’s having left him this house and his entire fortune besides. At all events, I asked young Abel to pile the wood on. He filled the basket, too, to overflowing, so we can be as lavish as we like. But do come in and shut that door, Puck. There is the most chilling draft while you stand there.”
“Oh dear, how very sorry I am,” exclaimed Miss Pucklington, pulling the door to with a snap and remaining pressed up against it, “but I am persuaded that I ought not to disturb you, my dear. To be sure, my own room is like an ice house, but after Cousin Olympia’s saying so firmly that we ought not to waste Cousin Sydney’s money on mere creature comforts—”
“Rubbish,” Carolyn said. “Sydney would be the first to squander his fortune on creature comforts, for he doesn’t believe them mere at all. As to disturbing me, you will be doing no such thing, for I am quite out of patience with the characters in this book, and I shall welcome your company. Indeed, I begin to wonder how such foolish books as this one ever amused me.”
Miss Pucklington eyed the slim, gilt-edged blue volume curiously as she moved to take a seat in one of two matching wing chairs facing the fire, scooting it to an angle that allowed her to face Carolyn without craning her neck. “That cannot be the book Cousin Olympia gave you at breakfast,” she said as she produced her knitting bag from beneath her myriad shawls and withdrew a tumble of brightly-colored wool from its depths.
“Good gracious, no,” Carolyn replied, wrinkling her nose. “Godmama cannot have read so much as the first page of that book, for even she could not be so daft as to believe I would read such fustian. I expect ’twas the title made her hope it would do me good to read it. ’Tis called Modern Manners, and you must know she was a trifle displeased with my behavior when we took tea with the dowager Viscountess Lyndhurst on Wednesday last.”
Miss Pucklington smiled, bringing a twinkle to her pale blue eyes. “As I recall the matter, Cousin Olympia’s displeasure had less to do with the viscountess’s tea than with the fact that you spent the afternoon chatting with the young viscount. A most unsuitable young man for you to know, Cousin Olympia told me. A reputation, you know,” she murmured, blushing.
“According to Godmama and Sydney,” Carolyn said with a grimace, “every gentleman in Bath under the age of a hundred and three is unsuitable for me to know. But Modern Manners won’t help their cause, for it was written nigh onto a hundred-fifty years ago and ’tis a treatise on the excellence of the Puritan way of life … Godmama cannot have known that, for the Saint-Denis family has always held by the Anglican faith. Well, since there has been an Anglican faith, at all events,” she amended. “And there is nothing amiss with Viscount Lyndhurst, reputation or no. He is certainly no Count Rodolfo!”
“Count Rodolfo? Whoever is Count Rodolfo?”
Carolyn indicated her book. “He is the villain of this lurid tale, and quite my favorite character.”
“Oh, dear!”
Carolyn shrugged. “I know one is not supposed to like the villain, Puck, but at least Count Rodolfo is not stupid. He never misses an opportunity to do evil. Right from the very first, when he abducted Miss Laura Lovelace from the convent—”
“Convent!”
“From right under the noses of the nuns who raised her, for of course Laura is an orphan.” She sighed. “All the best romantic heroines are orphans, you know, though personally, I have never found the orphaned state to be a romantic one.”
“Certainly not.”
“No, for you are one, too, are you not?”
“I suppose I am,” Miss Pucklington said with a small frown. “Mama died during my third Season and dear Papa went aloft nigh onto ten years ago, which is when I began to live with Cousin Olympia. But one does not think of a woman of my years in such terms, of course. Your own case is a far more melancholy one.”
“Perhaps,” Carolyn said, still thinking about her book. “One wonders what became of the parents of all those heroines. This author, who calls herself ‘a Gentlewoman of Consequence, residing in Bath,’ after the fashion of her ilk, writes that Miss Laura’s parents died in each other’s arms, which I thought romantic but odd, especially since I have been unable to discover why they died. It doesn’t make any difference to the story, of course, and one doesn’t really want to know the details.” She grimaced, remembering with painful clarity the deaths of her own parents within days of each other, though definitely not in each other’s arms. The gruesome sights, smells, and sounds of typhus could not be thought romantic by anyone.
Miss Pucklington clicked her tongue in distress. “You must not dwell upon such sorrowful memories, my dear.”
“Not sorrowful ones,” Carolyn said frankly, “just rather horrid ones.” Then, seeing that her companion looked more distressed than ever, she added, “Truly, ma’am, though my parents’ deaths were awful and I am most sincerely sorry for their
suffering, it has been nearly seven years since their passing, and I do not grieve for them. In point of fact, I didn’t like them very much.”
Miss Pucklington’s eyes widened and she looked anxiously around as though she feared someone else might have heard. “You must not say such things, Carolyn. ’Tis vastly unbecoming.”
“Why? My parents were both distant, chilly persons who scarcely ever paid me any heed. That my mother always smelled delightfully of flowers is the most pleasant memory I have of either of them. Doubtless she expected to notice me when the time came to present me at court, and Papa doubtless expected to have to frank me for a Season or two, but since they both died before either event came to pass, I did not receive even that much of their attention. Indeed, since they sent me here to Bath to school when I was nine, and since I generally spent my shorter holidays with Godmama and the others at Swainswick, it was only by the greatest mischance that I happened to be at home in Devon when the typhus struck. Even then, it was only because my old nurse insisted upon my staying away from them both that I chanced to witness the dreadful effects of the disease that killed them.”
“Because she insisted you stay away?”
“Of course.” But Carolyn had the grace to look ashamed of herself as she added, “I had then a lamentable habit of wishing most to do that which I have been commanded not to do, a habit I trust I’ve outgrown. I made a mistake that time, of course, and was most fortunate not to have become ill myself.”
“I should think so.” Miss Pucklington would have said more, but the library door opened again just then, startling them both.
It was only the footman Abel, who bowed awkwardly and said, “Yer pardon, miss, but I thought I’d stoke up that fire a bit if you was wantin’ me ter, ’n’ see if anything else were wanted.”
“Thank you,” Carolyn said. “You may put another log on, if you will, but that will be all.” When he had gone, she grimaced comically at Miss Pucklington. “I was afraid it was Godmama.”
“I, too,” her companion confessed, “though, of course, Cousin Olympia is laid down upon her bed, just as she is every afternoon at this time, or else I should be with her and not here with you. But perhaps you ought to be getting on with reading your book, my dear, while you may still enjoy the luxury of this glorious fire. You needn’t heed me, you know, for I have my knitting to occupy me, and I am very much accustomed to sitting quietly and entirely unnoticed.”
“I know that must be true,” Carolyn said, curling her legs under herself again and leaning back into the curve of the sofa. “You are forever at Godmama’s beck and call, are you not, and must always be at her side to be ignored or bullied at her whim. How often you must long for solitude!”
“Solitude!” Miss Pucklington was shocked. “Goodness me, no,” she said. “I count myself fortunate, most fortunate, indeed, for were it not for dear Cousin Olympia’s generosity, I should very likely have been left to starve when Papa died, for he made no arrangement for me, none at all. I was most grateful when Cousin Olympia so generously took me under her wing.”
Carolyn sighed. “I suppose I should be grateful to her, too, but ’tis exceedingly difficult on such a day as today, when the sky looks like coming on to storm and one can place no dependence upon Godmama to remember that she promised to take me to the assembly tonight at the Sydney Gardens Hotel. Truly, on such days, this house begins to feel like a moss-covered tomb in which I have been buried alive!”
Miss Pucklington’s gaze shifted significantly to the gilt-edged blue book. When she looked back at Carolyn, there was a glint of amusement in her eyes, but she made no comment.
None was necessary. Carolyn’s cheeks grew pink as she said, “Perhaps I am talking a bit like Miss Laura Lovelace, but one does, from time to time, find life in the pages of one’s books a good deal more interesting than reality. I am certainly not so foolish as Miss Laura is, however.”
Miss Pucklington blinked. “Is she very foolish?”
A glance at her open countenance told Carolyn the question was an innocent one. “Not foolish so much as stupid,” she said. “She refuses to learn from her mistakes. Why, I am only halfway through the second of three volumes, and Count Rodolfo has just abducted the brainless wench for the fourth time! This time she went into the forest beyond Sir Bartholomew’s manor house after he warned her to stay in his walled garden, and only because she wished to gather wild blackberries. And of course, Count Rodolfo was just waiting for her. Moreover,” she added on a note of disgust, “the season is supposed to be early spring!”
Miss Pucklington clicked her tongue. “I fear ’tis the way of most romantic heroines to be intrepid rather than wise, but Miss Laura can scarcely be blamed for her creator’s not realizing that wild blackberries cannot be had so early in the year.”
“Well, if I were Sir Bartholomew I’d wring her silly neck or beat her till she screamed for mercy,” Carolyn said flatly, “and the fact that heroes never do such things only goes to prove how unrealistic tales like this one really are, because any gentleman who accepted responsibility for her surely would lose his temper when she continues to behave as she does.”
“True romantic heroes,” Miss Pucklington said wistfully, “see no faults in their fair beloveds, or else they love them to distraction in spite of their faults.”
“Goodness, ma’am, do you read such stuff as this?”
Miss Pucklington’s guilt was written all over her face as she said, “Not often, I confess. ’Tis difficult to indulge in such common tastes in Cousin Olympia’s presence.”
“I should think so,” Carolyn said, her imagination boggling at the thought of Miss Pucklington with her long thin nose buried in any Gothic romance, let alone in the presence of the august Olympia, dowager Lady Skipton. But Carolyn’s duty was clear nonetheless. “Look here, ma’am,” she said, getting swiftly to her feet, “the first volume of this tale is on the shelf behind Sydney’s desk—just here.” She reached for the book and took it down. “I daresay he must subscribe for nearly everything that’s printed, because I’m forever finding new ones, and he has said I may choose whatever I like. He would say the same to you, I know. Here, take it. ’Tis a most diverting tale, for all my criticism.” She held out the book, and Miss Pucklington, pink with guilty pleasure, accepted it at once.
“I am sure I should not,” she said, caressing the cover. “Oh, what will Cousin Olympia say?”
“Nothing at all if you do not show it to her,” Carolyn said, her eyes dancing with mischief, “and you know perfectly well that Sydney will not care a whit.”
“No, for he is most generous, is he not? And whatever Cousin Olympia may say about his childhood temper,” she added on a more spirited note, “Cousin Sydney would never wring a young woman’s neck. Nor would it ever enter his head to beat her, no matter what foolish thing she might have done.”
“No,” Carolyn agreed, laughing as she tried and failed to conjure up a vision of the elegant Sydney Saint-Denis ever exerting himself to such violent action. “He would fear to muss his clothes, would he not? Moreover, I doubt he has any temper, for I have certainly never seen the least hint of one.”
“No,” Miss Pucklington said gently, “and I am persuaded that in past years some of your pranks must have sorely tried the patience of a lesser gentleman. But no doubt, now that you are so near to coming of age—only a month, after all—you have outgrown your love for practical jokes.”
“There was not much scope for such nonsense either at Swainswick when last we were there, or since we came to Bathwick Hill House,” Carolyn told her with a grin, “but it does not do to allow oneself to become too sedentary, and ’tis rather a sore point with me that I have never managed really to stir Sydney up. One day I should like very much to astonish him with such a joke as he would find impossible to ignore.”
“Oh dear,” Miss Pucklington said nervously, “I ought never to have mentioned the subject, but it is not wise to provoke him, my dear, for we are all dependent upon h
is hospitality. Cousin Olympia assures me that we would not like to live in the Dower House, and I cannot think she would willingly return to Lord and Lady Skipton at Swainswick.”
“Nor would they willingly receive her,” Carolyn said with a laugh. “Not after she left in such high dudgeon after that awful argument with Matilda just a month after we returned from London. Matilda has invited us to spend Christmas at Swainswick, however, so perhaps they are on speaking terms again. In any event, I have no fear that Sydney will throw us out into the cold.”
“Our circumstances are scarcely similar, however,” Miss Pucklington said. “I am merely the poor relation, while you are the beloved godchild.”
“Not Sydney’s godchild,” Carolyn pointed out.
“No, but his mother’s. And you have your fortune, as well, do you not? My father left me nothing when he died.”
“These days,” Carolyn said dryly, “five thousand invested in the funds is an independence, ma’am, but scarcely a fortune, certainly not to the beau monde. That fact I discovered the instant I made my come-out. I did have several eligible offers—indeed, I have been twice betrothed, have I not—but I am still unwed for the simple reason that I could not imagine myself married to any of them, and since Godmama has said she will hire herself out as a cook’s maid before she will ever again stay at Skipton London House with Matilda, my second Season was doubtless my last. Godmama promised I would meet any number of eligible young men in Bath, but of course, the town being no longer the fashionable place it once was, I seem to meet only unsuitable ones, so although I did think it would be amusing to live in Sydney’s house, he keeps flitting off hither and yon to auctions and whatnot, and it has not been amusing at all.”
“Nevertheless,” Miss Pucklington said, “you will never be entirely dependent upon relations for your bread and board, as I am, nor so apprehensive of being left alone in the world.”