Cynthia Bailey Pratt

by Splendid You

  “You astound me. Here, puss.” Leaning heavily on the newel post, the general bent down to let the cat smell his fingertips. When it condescended to do so, the general stroked its head. Its rumbling purr stuttered and sputtered as if it had been infrequently used.

  “That’s a nice cat,” the general said. “Is it a stray?”

  “I—I believe so.”

  “I wonder if Mrs. Nicely could use a cat in the kitchen. She was complaining of mice the other day.” The general’s wrinkled, hooded eyes brooded upon the cat. “We shall call her Josephine, for she looks a bit like the Creole empress about the eyes. Don’t you think?”

  “If you say so. Father. I believe Josephine would like some cream.”

  “I’ll do it. You’d better go to bed. You’re expected at Whitehall in the morning.” He handed his son a white envelope.

  “What on earth do they want now? I was there for hours only this afternoon.” He tore the envelope open.

  “Duty, my boy. The message came while you were out.”

  Robert read the information contained in the note. It was from his friend, Bunty Bruce, attaché to some minister or other. “It’s not too bad. Just another discussion of the situation as I left it in the Punjab.”

  “Again? You’d think they’d know that backward and forward by now. Why, in my day, we would never... but then, I don’t want to go on forever about my wars. It’s the modern-day battles we must fight and no one is better suited to soldiering than you, my boy.”

  General Winslow’s pride centered around his only son having followed him into the army. He never tired of telling his cronies at the club that his boy had risen to major five years before he himself had attained such a rank. “And then,” he’d say with a chuckle, “it took Waterloo to do it!”

  Robert himself had only once entertained doubts about his career in the army. That had been during his last home leave, when he’d fallen hopelessly in love with Lucy Archer, then in the full flower of her debut. She had been the sweetest, gravest creature imaginable, with great blue eyes that could turn sentimentally damp over music or poetry. He’d counted a smile from her as a greater triumph than the battles he’d known. But the thought of such a delicate, fine flower withering in the heat of India, a place that destroyed even strong and healthy men, had appalled him. He’d gone away without proposing, stealing one kiss as a bulwark against a bleak future. Lucy had reacted badly, but he could not forget that one blissful instant when he’d felt her lips cling to his.

  The future had proved brighter than he could have imagined. Through sheer luck—for he never gave himself credit for his military talents—he had led a charge against the Sikhs. Having his horse shot from under him, and receiving a minor scalp wound, added to his fame. He’d received a medal, too, and falling into conversation with Prince Albert after the ceremony, had the good fortune to praise one of the prince’s ideas for reforming the uniforms of his battalion. He had not known at the time that it was the prince’s idea, though no one believed him now. Many people found the prince stiff and formal, but no one who saw him working so hard for so little notice could fail to respect the man.

  Other things had changed besides his position in the world. Simon Archer was famous; there was even talk at court that the queen and the prince would make an appearance at the grand ball given to celebrate the exhibition of his fabulous find. The two younger girls were fully grown young ladies and Lucy had become something of a recluse.

  His father claimed that he had not seen her in just under two years. Before Robert had kissed her, she’d been wont to come to his door every other day to arrange the flowers or do the other duties of a daughter. Had that been the reason the kiss Robert had pressed on her lips had shocked her so? Did she regard her childhood friend as a brother only? He knew the general missed her. He did not say so, but he did.

  Robert knew it was despicable to use Lucy’s cat to reach her. He felt that if only they could talk for a few minutes all their misunderstandings would be cured. But how to do it? She never seemed to go out. The one time he’d sent his card in, it had come back very carefully snipped into small squares of pasteboard only fit for the calling cards of extra-formal mice.

  Between the two of them, the general and Robert managed to find a warm corner for Josephine. They tipped some clean sheets out of Mrs. Nicely’s clothes basket and lined the wickerwork with today’s Times.

  Then, weary right down to his bones, Robert went to bed. Within half an hour, he’d heard his father’s door open and close twice. Robert rose and went to investigate. His father was creeping along the corridor to his bedchamber at the far end.

  “Father? Is something amiss? Do you feel unwell?”

  Without turning, the general said, “Oh, no. All is well. God bless you, Robert, and good night.”

  Robert had no doubt that if his father felt ill, the proud man would do all he could to conceal it. So he walked up behind his father and asked again. A strange thrumming sound interrupted him.

  He walked around the general, only to have his father turn away from him again. “Father?” Robert asked, torn between amusement and hurt.

  The general sighed gustily. He faced his son and showed him the little black face peering out from the breast of his dressing gown. “I went down to see if she’d had all she wanted. She seemed comfortable in her nest near the stove but, after a time, I thought perhaps she’d be happier in my room. I don’t need all the pillows Mrs. Nicely gives me.”

  Robert chucked the cat under the chin. It closed greeny-gold eyes in pleasure. “She probably has enough fleas to populate a kennel.”

  “I don’t know about that. She seems a clean little thing. And what are a few fleas in exchange for companionship?”

  Robert knew the general often felt lonely, especially with his only son away so much of the lime. When his inevitable recall came up, General Winslow would be all the more solitary. “Wouldn’t you prefer a dog, sir?”

  “No. I’ll never have another dog after poor old Balthazar. But a cat, now ... a cat is a good friend to an old man. She stays close to warm his aching knees and there is something pleasantly meditative in the stroking of soft fur. Not that yours is so very soft, my little one. Whoever your master was, he did not pay enough attention to you. Or perhaps you were one of many, eh?”

  Remembering that this was Lucy’s cat, Robert tried to weaken his father’s interest. “She probably does belong to someone....”

  “I shall watch for posted notices of a lost cat. Until then, she may as well stay with us.”

  In his room, Robert removed his uniform, heaving a sigh of deep relief when he unbuckled the stiff stock from around his neck. He hung up his trousers to be brushed. His throat felt scratchy and dry from the cigar smoke and whiskey that had followed dinner at Her Majesty’s table. He opened his bedroom window, which overlooked the street, and stood in front of it while drinking off a tumble of water.

  It was as he was lowering the glass from his face that he realized that there was someone in the street below. He would have dismissed this visitor as a policeman on his rounds, or a late-passing stranger, were it not that the man was standing there staring at Lucy’s house.

  Impetuously, Robert thrust his head out and shouted, “Here! What do you want?”

  The figure did not start or look around. He simply turned and walked away, the long cape, such as a man might wear to the opera, swinging above his heels.

  Julia awoke to a sparkling day and the smell of freshly cooked bacon. A maid was just peeking in around the door, her starched cap bobbing. “I’m awake,” Julia said, stretching out all her limbs. “What time is it?”

  “Now, there, I didn’t mean to wake you. ‘Let her sleep,’ the mistress says to me. ‘Went to bed ever so late,’ she says. ‘And them what’s young need more sleep than old ‘uns.’ Mind you,” she said, coming in at a bustle and jerking apart the curtains, “I could do with a bit of a lie-in meself this morning.”

  “Why? Are you ill
?”

  “Oh, no, miss. It’s just this here ball we’re all working ourselves to death on account of.”

  “Ball?”

  “To celebrate the young master’s bits of junk he found out in them heathen nations he’s always traipsing off to. And a more higgledy-piggledy mess there never was!”

  “How do you mean?”

  The maid gave her a darkling look. “You’ll find out if you stay on. This one says such and such, while her sister says ‘no, it’s to be thus and so.’ Not to say what I shouldn’t, but it’s only worse when they go to the mistress. ‘Tis a shambles, right enough.”

  She whisked up Julia’s clothes. “Here, I’ll have these brushed and back before the cat can lick her ear.”

  “The cat!” Julia tossed aside the blankets and slipped out of bed. She was forced to engage in a short tug-of-war with the maid over her clothes. “No, I don’t care to have them brushed ... they’ll do just the way they are.”

  Releasing her grip on her skirt, Julia pushed her hair out of her face and said, “What is your name?”

  “Apple, miss,” the maid answered, bobbing a little curtsey while a look of consternation crept into her pretty gray eyes. She only had that much beauty. Her face was marked by tiny pitted scars over her cheeks, while her stout figure was positively brawny in the tight black stuff gown she wore. Julia decided not to pursue the tug-of-war any farther after seeing the girl’s arm strength. An apron was pinned on at her waist to fall like a crisp white flag of cleanliness and virtue. Like a nun’s scapular, it told everyone what she was—a menial—while at the same time daring anyone to humor her or bear with her.

  “Well, Apple, I am only staying with the Archers overnight. The night is done, so I’m leaving today. My own maid will take care of my clothes, though I thank you for the trouble you’ve gone to for me.”

  “Don’t you want no breakfast?”

  “Breakfast sounds wonderful. Why don’t you get it while I dress?”

  As soon as the maid left, Julia threw open wide the window of her room. She poked her head out and looked down into the street. The sky gave a promise of a clear day and the usual vendors had already come out. Maids in caps, cooks in aprons, butlers muffled in their own aprons of green baize stood trading, shopping, or gossiping. It must be early, Julia reasoned, for in a little while all this humanity would be back behind doors or would have moved off to some other sector of the city.

  She leaned her chin on her hands and watched them. One maid with pretty blond hair was flirting just as hard as she could with the knife grinder, but Julia would have bet that her real interest lay with the handsome, if older, butler behind her. He was pretending not to notice her while he exchanged courtly greetings with another man— a gentleman’s personal gentleman by the look of his slightly more flamboyant waistcoat—but Julia noticed the way he frowned when he looked past his friend. She smiled, hoping it would all turn out well.

  All the while, she kept a watch for the cat. If An-ket were down there, she’d find a way to show herself.

  When Apple returned with Julia’s breakfast, she still had not dressed, so the maid bore off her clothes with an air of triumph. Realizing she was near to starving, Julia ate everything in sight, even eyeing the daisy in the little glass vase with appetite. She drew the line there, however.

  When a knock sounded at her door, she knew it couldn’t be Apple. “Come in.”

  Mrs. Archer entered, her head enveloped in a fluffy lace cap and a straw-colored cashmere peignoir swathed around her crinolined form. “I could not understand Apple when she said you were awake and breakfasting already! Ah, the resilience of youth!”

  “It was less my youth and more my stomach that woke me, ma’am.” She expected at least a frown for referring to so delicate an object as a stomach, but Mrs. Archer surprised her by laughing merrily.

  “You poor thing! So remiss of Simon not to feed you but there! Men always have their heads in the clouds.”

  “I can’t blame him. He wasn’t with me at dinnertime. But I must compliment you on your cook, Mrs. Archer. Such a marvelous omelette! The mushrooms were perfectly sautéed. How do you suppose she does it? Mine always come out like india rubber.”

  “A good cook is like a good stage magician, my dear. They never reveal their secrets.” She took the tray from Julia’s lap, placing it on the bedside table, and sat down across from her. “So—now. Tell me what your plans are. My son said something about planning to open your home? Hire servants and the like?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “But surely you are only remaining in London for a very short period? You don’t intend to live here all year round, for instance?”

  “No, indeed. I shall return home in a few weeks for my father’s wedding.”

  Mrs. Archer paused a moment. “Ah. Your father is marrying again? How wonderful! Some sweet young creature, no doubt.”

  “No, a widow of maturity.”

  “Indeed. Well,” she said with a bright, yet wistful, smile. “That lends hope to us all. Not that I’d ever marry again. My dear husband was the most patient and understanding of men. No one could ever replace him in my heart. You are, as I understand it, the only child?”

  “Yes. My mother died when I was quite young.”

  “Poor child.” Mrs. Archer patted Julia’s knee. “I can at least tell myself that my children need not miss their father so much when they have each other. My girls are devoted to each other—quite devoted.”

  “I should have liked a younger brother or sister. Someone to look after....”

  “Perhaps one day you shall have them. After all, you may marry someone with siblings. Then they would become yours. My own dear brother—the earl—he was very fond of my husband, though at first he thought him not quite good enough for his sister! But they were soon reconciled with each other, and Jack has been really wonderful to the children. He has his own now, of course, but never a birthday or a holiday go by without some mark of his affection.”

  “That must be very gratifying.” She was still at a loss to know why Mrs. Archer’s attitude toward her had changed so drastically. Last night, she’d seemed most unwelcoming. Later on, and now this morning, she seemed determined to be gracious. Even more than gracious, Mrs. Archer was being positively congenial.

  “He’s even throwing open his house for the ball we are giving to celebrate Simon’s discovery. Everyone will be there. We’ve even something of a promise that the queen herself ... but there! I shouldn’t even hint at such things.”

  “I have never seen the queen. My father is very much a queen’s man, though, as they used to say.”

  “Oh, a little lady in stature, but very much what one would want one’s queen to be. None of that loose behavior like those Egyptian queens Simon studies. I sometimes wonder if ... but I shouldn’t trouble you with a mother’s worries.”

  For no longer than a heartbeat, Mrs. Archer’s determinedly bright prattle faded along with her toothy smile. “You are very easy to talk to, my dear Miss Hanson.”

  “So people say. But you must call me Julia.”

  “May I?” She seemed inordinately pleased. “Well, then, Julia, I must tell you that Simon will probably be champing at the bit to be gone. The exhibition opens tomorrow and he will want to make some last-minute changes. Undoubtedly!”

  “Would you tell him that the moment Apple brings my dress back from being pressed I will be with him?”

  Alone, Julia washed her face, hands, and the back of her neck, vowing that the first thing she would do when in her own home would be to have the bathtub scrubbed out. Then she’d soak herself in a concoction of lavender salts until all the kinks were gone. She had a secret love of long, luxurious baths, one she might as well indulge while she could. Such things were hard to come by in Egypt, she feared.

  She had to face the fact that she was no nearer to that country than she’d been in her dreams while still bodily in Yorkshire. Simon Archer still wasn’t certain whether she was a
madwoman, or merely eccentric. Truthfully, she wasn’t so sure herself. Perhaps he was right and An-ket had been a mere hallucination. “But she seemed so real....”

  As real as the look in Simon’s eye when he’d almost kissed her last night. Julia knew now that he’d wanted to, just as she had wanted him to. It had seemed a good idea at the time, but now she was glad Mrs. Archer had interrupted. Julia wanted to go to Egypt as Simon’s wife, yes, but not under false pretenses. She would not seduce him into taking her along.

  “You just keep that in mind, my girl,” she said, beginning the process of making her hair behave. “If you try to seduce him, you’ll just make a fool of yourself. Be sensible, be knowledgeable, be friendly. Nothing else.”

  Yet she still felt her body tighten when she thought of the look in his eyes. He’d come closer and closer ... his hands moving in her hair ... Julia found herself sitting with her eyes closed in front of the mirror, her hairbrush fallen to the floor. Straightening up. she turned a rebuking glare upon herself. “That’s just what I mean. No more of it, if you please.”

  A knock made her jump. “Miss Hanson?” Simon called. “May I see you a moment?”

  “I’m not dressed,” she replied, then could have kicked herself, for she was wearing precisely what she’d had on in the kitchen when they’d talked so long.

  “Oh! Ah, I’ll see you downstairs then, shortly?”

  “As soon as Apple brings my clothes back.”

  “Quite. I shall wait for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Simon was waiting on the front step when she came out. “You look remarkably fresh for a young lady who was up so very late, Miss Hanson.”

  “You’re kinder than my mirror, Mr. Archer. It had quite a different tale to tell.”

  The street, so bustling earlier, was now nearly deserted. The crowd of menials and vendors had given way to the carriage of a lady making morning calls and a pair of horsemen, on their way, no doubt, to ride in Hyde Park, Across the road, a window slid up with a bang. “I say, is that you, Archer?”