Cygnet

by Hiatt, Brenda

  They chattered on for a few minutes, relating the entire scene for Deirdre's benefit, before Lady Penrose bustled in to greet Lord Ellerby warmly and to apologize for her absence upon his arrival.

  "I caught Molly, that new maid, actually trying to polish the bannisters with lard instead of beeswax, simply because she could not find any!" She shook her head at such incompetence. "But that is neither here nor there. Will you stay to dinner, my lord?" she asked Ellerby hopefully.

  "Afraid I can't, m'lady," he replied with obviously sincere regret. "I've already agreed to meet some friends at White's. But Cel... Miss Wheaton tells me you're to go to the theatre tonight. Might I perhaps look in on your box during the intermission?"

  This was agreed upon and he took his leave. Immediately, Lady Penrose pounced on Celeste with eager questions about her afternoon with Lord Ellerby; she had not missed his near slip, nor the fact that her daughter had referred to him by his Christian name when making her farewells.

  "Yes, I enjoyed our outing very much," replied Celeste to her mother's queries. "He is most attentive, and very pleasant."

  "And more the true gentleman than a certain person you were favouring before," added the Baroness with a significant nod.

  "Sir Malcolm, you mean," replied Celeste, never one for subtleties. "Yes, I believe you are right. Besides, Sir Malcolm did not call today while we were out, nor did he dance with me but once last night, though I noticed he had two waltzes with Mary Ferguson."

  "Going after easier prey, I'll warrant, with a less watchful mama," commented Lady Penrose with a sour smile. "You are well rid of that one, my dear, mark my words."

  "Lord Ellerby only danced with you once as well, did he not?" asked Deirdre cautiously. "You are not favouring him only for his wealth, are you, Celeste?"

  "He wanted another dance with me, only he arrived too late," replied Celeste with a toss of her head. "It is not at all the same thing. And no, I truly like Charles, Didi, so you must not say such things. Wealth is important, of course," she said with a quick glance at her mother, "but I would not marry only for that. Charles adores me, which I find very pleasant."

  Clearly uncomfortable with such self-examination, Celeste quickly changed the subject. "What of you and your Lord Wrotham? Did you enjoy your drive with him?"

  Deirdre gave her sister a half smile. "We are not even on a first name basis as you and your Charles are, so he is hardly 'my' Lord Wrotham," she replied, her new secret suddenly weighing on her conscience. Was he ever likely to be that now? In sudden decision, she pulled the Examiner from her work bag. "Mama, Celeste, I... I have something to show you."

  "An article, my dear?" asked Lady Penrose, taking the proffered paper. "I rarely read this paper, I must admit, as it tends more to politics and literary matters than to the important social news."

  "Not... not an article, Mama," Deirdre corrected her. "A sonnet. There."

  Her mother read it through, a baffled frown furrowing her brow. "It is very nice, I suppose, Didi, but you know I rarely read poetry and am no fit critic. What did you wish to ask me about it?"

  Celeste, however, had been watching her sister's face. "It is yours, Didi, is it not? You have had a poem published in a paper, and never told us! What a good joke!" She reached across to take the paper from her mother.

  "Is Celeste right, Didi? Is this one of your poems?" asked Lady Penrose in astonishment. Deirdre nodded almost fearfully.

  "But your name is not on it!" complained Celeste, who had not yet even read the sonnet. "Why is that?"

  "Because your sister is not completely lost to a sense of what is proper," stated Lady Penrose firmly. "She was quite right to refrain from having her name bandied about in the papers." At Deirdre's crestfallen expression, her tone softened. "I am very proud of you, of course, my dear, and I am certain your father will be vastly pleased, but you do understand that it would be best to keep this in the family, do you not?"

  "Why, that seems shabby beyond anything!" protested Celeste. "I should think she should want to tell the world. Don't you, Didi?"

  "Not... not if Mama thinks I ought not to, I suppose," replied Deirdre, half-rebellious, but on the whole rather relieved to have the matter taken out of her hands.

  "Most assuredly, I think you ought not to," said Lady Penrose. "I am sorry, Deirdre, but young ladies of fashion simply don't go writing things for the public papers. It would be... vulgar."

  "It is not as though I were on the newspaper staff, Mama, or working for pay," Deirdre reminded her, though without much hope.

  "I am perfectly aware of that, Didi, but the fact remains that there are those in Society who would seek to make a scandal out of it, regardless. Lord Wrotham's apparent interest in you is bound to create a few enemies out of mere jealousy. And he would no doubt be less inclined to offer for you were this to become common knowledge. Studiousness is rarely seen as an asset in a young lady, you know."

  That much was no doubt true, Deirdre had to admit. It would be bad enough to have him discover that she wrote poetry at all, but for him to find that she was one of the poets in the paper he so despised ...

  "I will not bruit it about, Mama, I promise," she said quietly. "I may tell Beata, though, may I not?"

  "Certainly," agreed Lady Penrose. "I see no point in trying to keep it from the family. I daresay she will even be pleased about it."

  Deirdre excused herself at that point, feeling that she could not bear any more of her mother's opinions just then. In her room, she sat in her favourite chair by the window and stared blindly out at the street scene below her.

  No matter what Lady Penrose said, it was quite an accomplishment to have had her poetry published by Mr. Hunt, something she had every right to be proud of. But if no one knew that it was hers, how could she ever become the celebrated poet she had always dreamed of being? And if they did know, Lord Wrotham would no doubt wish never to have anything to do with her again. She would keep her secret for now, she decided —after all, she had promised her mother as much —but not forever. Someday, perhaps, after she had "converted" Lord Wrotham as Beata had suggested she would be able to, everyone would know that D was really Deirdre Wheaton.

  But right now... At the least, she must write a letter to Faith, enclosing a copy of the front sheet of the Examiner. It was nice to know that there was one person she could count on to be delighted rather than embarrassed at her accomplishment.

  * * *

  Scowling and muttering, Jonas Flinder paid off the driver of the hack which had carried him to Graham's on St. James's Street, his preferred haunt. He felt like the Wedding-Guest in Coleridge's Rime of the Ancient Mariner, having had his hopes and high spirits so suddenly drowned in tragedy. How could Didi throw him off like that? Had she not all but promised to be his wife?

  Jonas had rehearsed Deirdre's joyous acceptance of his suit so many times that he had come to believe it accomplished; her refusal had sent the elaborate castle he had built in the air crashing down about his ears. He felt betrayed, cheated, tricked, in a way a less imaginative man would not have been. Surely, all the world must be laughing at him at this moment!

  Glancing dully around the club, he saw but one table, in a dimly lit corner, unoccupied. He made his way to it, ordering a bottle of port from a passing waiter. Though not ordinarily a heavy drinker, he felt that he needed it just then. He settled himself comfortably and proceeded to go through the wine at a pace which would have done credit to any of the four-or five-bottle gentlemen in Town.

  Jonas had not quite lost the use of his wits when Mr. Gates, who he vaguely recalled was some connection of Lord Wrotham's, joined him at the table. Jonas scowled blearily across at the newcomer.

  "Whatsit you want?" he demanded belligerently. "T'rub salt in my wounds? Go congratulate your kinsman instead!"

  Since their encounter in the Park two days ago, when he had detected an uncommon interest, even jealousy, in Lord Wrotham's manner, Myron Gates had suspected that Miss Deirdre Wheaton was the lad
y chosen to deprive him of his inheritance. He had made it his business since then to discover everything he could about the young lady, including the fact that Mr. Jonas Flinder was her most persistent suitor.

  His sources included gossiping dandies, who derived their amusement from watching the antics of other members of the ton at various functions, as well as casual acquaintances and even servants. He had been relieved to discover that the marquis had apparently made her no offer as yet, and he intended to do all in his power to prevent him from doing so.

  Myron had come to Graham's quite by chance but, upon seeing Mr. Flinder engaged with a bottle, decided to join him with the purpose of influencing him to forestall his cousin in proposing to Miss Wheaton. Jonas's first words, therefore, caused him no small amount of alarm.

  "My dear Mr. Flinder— Jonas, is it not?— whatever can you mean?" he managed to ask with feigned disinterest. "Have you had some sort of setback?"

  Flinder squinted at the figure before him and nodded gloomily. "A setback," he repeated. "That's putting it mildly." He went on to relate what had happened, too far into his cups to recognize the impropriety of thus unburdening himself to a virtual stranger. With the aid of his fanciful mind, he embellished the facts in the telling to such a degree as to imply that he had been jilted practically at the altar.

  "Why, Mr. Flinder," said Myron in exaggerated astonishment when Jonas had finished. "Surely you will not take her refusal so tamely as this? Where is your spirit, man? You must show her who is master. Make her marry you!" A cowardly man himself, he understood that Flinder would need substantial bolstering if he were to be goaded into action.

  "A fine buck like you..." He shook his head in apparent disbelief. "The girl must be mad. You must bring her to her senses, else she will regret it her whole life." He continued in this vein until Flinder began to feel quite full of himself, ready to take on the world.

  "You're right, my friend," he said finally, rising unsteadily and throwing enough coins on the table to pay for the spirits he and Myron had consumed over the past hour. "I can't allow her to throw away a prize like myself. 'Twill be for her own good."

  He clapped Myron on the shoulder and bade him farewell before venturing out into the street to look rheumily about for a hackney. What he needed right now, he decided as a cab pulled up, was someone who could truly appreciate his many fine qualities. He directed the driver to take him to Drusilla's apartment in Seven Dials.

  * * *

  Lord Wrotham sat sipping brandy and reading the newspapers at White's, where he awaited Lord Ellerby and two other gentlemen for dinner and their weekly game of whist. Looking up, he saw Ellerby and Sir George Fenton coming towards him and greeted them with a smile.

  "Well met, gentlemen! And where is Manfred?"

  "Couldn't make it," said Sir George with a shrug. "Appears he promised to squire some chit for the evening and couldn't cry off."

  Charles snorted. "If I'd known that, I'd have stayed at Lady Penrose's for dinner. Always knew Manfred was a fribble."

  "We can always play at vingt-et-un or hazard," suggested Wrotham easily. "At any rate, the food here is good. Shall we order our dinners?" He waved over one of the waiters hovering in the room.

  "Have to excuse me, Ed, I'm afraid," said Sir George apologetically. "When Manfred told me earlier he wasn't coming, I promised Phoebe I'd be by. And she can be the very devil when I'm late!"

  "Wish he'd told me earlier!" said Charles sourly. "Well, if you ain't joining us, you'd best be off to your doxy. I daresay Ed and I will go on well enough." The thought of that missed dinner with Celeste, with whom he had made remarkable progress that afternoon, smarted.

  Sir George touched his forehead mockingly and took himself off and Ellerby settled himself gloomily across from Wrotham. "Can't trust those fellows for tuppence," he grumbled. "Nodcocks! We'd best find ourselves another pair for whist, Ed."

  "Oh, George and Manfred are well enough. Don't tell me you set that much store by our weekly game, Charles. This would only be the third time we'd played."

  Charles smiled reluctantly as Wrotham began folding up his papers in preparation for the dinner which would soon be arriving. "That's better. I daresay... half a moment, I missed this!'' The Marquis bent his attention to one of the pages before him for a few moments, then whistled softly.

  "I take back everything I said about Hunt the other day," he declared. "Have a look at this, Charles." He passed the Examiner across the table.

  "Come now, Ed, you know poetry ain't my thing," Ellerby protested when he saw what Wrotham pointed to. He scanned it none the less. "It reads well, I'll admit, though. Real vivid picture it paints; sort of puts you right in it, eh?" He handed the paper back.

  "It does that," replied Wrotham, reading through the sonnet again. "And more. Remarkable. One of the best pieces I've read in a long while. See how the metre flows, with no artificial feel, as you so often find? And it has a marvellous complexity of meaning. First, there's—"

  "I pray you, Ed, no more!" exclaimed Ellerby, holding up his hands in surrender. "I said I liked it, is that not enough? Spare me the scholarly critique!"

  "Very well," said Wrotham with a sigh. "I wish I had one friend in England who could appreciate such things," he continued with a wink at Charles. "Scholars are more plentiful on the Continent, I find."

  He paused, looking at the paper again consideringly. "By D, it says here. Wouldn't you know it? Glennis had no qualms about signing his name to that piece of trash the other day, but here we have a real gem and the author doesn't own to it." He shook his head. "I'd like to meet this chap. Now he's likely to be someone I could discuss things with on a higher level. He has a real gift."

  * * *

  CHAPTER 11

  Bright and early a few mornings later, attired in one of the simple walking dresses she had worn before her "transformation," Deirdre left Penrose House for Hyde Park. Neither her mother nor her sister were yet awake, but Lady Penrose had not objected to her plan when Deirdre had put it to her the night before, so long as she brought along either a maid or a groom for propriety's sake.

  Since she had no desire for conversation during her walk, Deirdre had decided to ride to the Park, with Granby, the groom, in attendance. Once there, she continued on foot, the groom following at a discreet distance with the horses. It seemed a deuced silly waste of the man's time and energy, she thought as she walked along, but she dared not defy her mother on such a point.

  Deirdre's thoughts had been in such a turmoil since Jonas had pointed out her sonnet in the Examiner that she scarcely knew what she did or said half of the time. She felt she needed this walk to clear her mind, to decide what direction she wished her life to take.

  At the theatre Saturday night, Lord Wrotham had stopped briefly at their box along with Lord Ellerby, but he had seemed preoccupied and left after only a few minutes. In spite of her own preoccupation, the pang of disappointment she had felt when he departed had reinforced her decision to proceed with her plan and to win the Marquis over to a love of poetry later, if that were possible. Beata had seemed to think it was. First, however, she must captivate him, so that he would be willing to listen to anything she said, however much it might go against his inclinations.

  She nodded firmly at this decision, feeling better already, and wishing she had not hurried so in getting ready that morning. Suppose Lord Wrotham were to see her like this, in her dowdy gown and with her hair pulled back in such a simple style? Before, she had thought to test him in that way, but now it seemed too risky. His good opinion meant too much to her. She looked about self-consciously and, as though her very thoughts had conjured him, she became aware at that moment of the Marquis walking towards her on the path.

  Deirdre's first impulse to turn and avoid Lord Wrotham was thwarted when he hailed her.

  "Good morning, Miss Wheaton," he called. "You have taken my advice, I see."

  As he came closer, Deirdre could detect no revulsion, or even surprise, at her les
s-than-fashionable appearance. Could it be that he did not mind? The thought emboldened her to reply. "Yes, I have sorely missed my morning walks since coming to London. But I thought you said it was your practice to ride in the Park of a morning."

  Wrotham grinned sheepishly. "And so it is," he admitted. "My horse is tied yonder, in that copse. I dismounted when I saw you. Perhaps your groom would be so kind as to untie the poor beast and lead him along with the others?"

  Granby nodded before Deirdre could relay the request and quickly went to retrieve the Marquis's horse. "Am I interrupting your ride, my lord, or do you also enjoy walking?" Deirdre felt compelled to ask.

  "I enjoy both, but I prefer walking with a companion to riding alone," he replied with a smile which made her heart beat uncomfortably fast. "And what of you, Miss Wheaton? Do I interrupt what was intended to be a solitary walk?"

  "No… well, yes it was intended so, but I have already done the thinking I wished to do," she said confusedly, blushing slightly. "You are perfectly welcome to join me now," she concluded quickly.

  He looked down at her with an enigmatic smile which made her wonder if he had guessed what it was she had needed to think about. "Thank you," he said quietly.

  They walked on in silence for a few moments. Deirdre looked about her in appreciation. Here, one could see spring at work as one could not elsewhere in the stony city of London. The grass was already green and flowers graced the tips of the branches in a small grove up ahead. Rounding a curve in the path, Deirdre saw a little rose garden, with one perfect red bloom on the bush nearest them and an equally perfect white one on the bush beside it.

  "'The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, One blushing shame, another white despair,' " she quoted softly without thinking. The words of that Shakespearean sonnet fit the scene so well.

  Lord Wrotham gazed at her in evident surprise, but just as he was about to speak, Deirdre shook herself and realized with alarm what she had said. "Are not the roses lovely, my lord?" she asked brightly, hoping that he had not noticed her slip.