Cynthia Bailey Pratt

by Splendid You

  “The fog is beginning to thin,” Simon said. “Anything else?”

  “No, not from Mother,”

  Something else she’d said had penetrated at last. “Why are you only just sending the invitations? Isn’t the party in several days ... this Wednesday, in fact?”

  Jane shook her head at him, sighing an exasperated breath. “No, silly. Haven’t you heard? We postponed it until next Friday. The countess has a cold and Mother won’t put herself forward, as she says, to play hostess in Aunt Lucinda’s absence. I’m just as glad about that! My godmother will do a much better job of it than Mother would. Mother was going to forbid the orchestra to play waltzes. Really, you know, she’s almost gothic in her notions.”

  “While Aunt Lucinda is notoriously fast? You’re dreaming, little girl. Aunt Lucinda was a bosom bow of the queen’s mother and is a stickler for propriety.”

  “It must run in the family,” Lucy muttered. “At least I hadn’t sent out any invitations with the old date.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it took us twice as long as it need have to decide what we were going to have. No one liked the paper I chose at the printer, and Mother and Amanda kept changing their minds about the printing. And you know Lucy will agree with everyone just to keep the peace.”

  “Everything else is all right, though?”

  “Well...”

  “What is it?”

  “Mr. Fiersole, the caterer, is still waiting to hear what we want to serve. Since the date has been pushed back, it’s not quite as desperate a situation as it was.”

  “Why doesn’t Mother just give him a free hand?”

  “Because Mr. Fiersole is a dreadful spendthrift, but really the very best chef. Aunt Lucinda swears by him and, of course, he knows her house so well.”

  Simon stood up. “I had no idea this was turning into such a catastrophe.”

  “Oh, it will all turn out well... I hope.”

  “When will Mother return home? I had better have a serious discussion with her about this. She doesn’t seem to realize how important this launch could be to my fund-raising. If I could find just one patron to finance next year’s dig!”

  “Couldn’t Miss Hanson’s father do it? Mother hinted that he was fearfully rich.”

  “Jane!”

  “Well, isn’t she? Apple said her underclothes had to be seen to be believed.”

  “Jane!” Simon said again, even more shocked. “Didn’t Miss Lanyon tell you never to mention certain subjects in mixed company? I thought she was supposed to be teaching you ladylike deportment as well as geography and needlework.”

  “I didn’t think it mattered if the man was your brother. Speaking of which ... you’d better see Lucy.”

  “Why? What’s the matter with her?”

  “Nothing, I think. You might not believe me, Simon, but when I went past her door this morning, I thought I heard her ...”

  “Was she crying again?”

  “No, that’s what is so strange. I thought I heard her singing. And not one of her sad songs, either. There are days when I think if I have to listen to ‘The Ash Grove’ one more time ... ! Anyway, I heard her singing something happy. As she’s your favorite sister, I thought you’d like to know.”

  Simon gave her a very straight look. “I haven’t a favorite sister,” he said.

  “Haven’t you?”

  “No. There are times when I dislike you all equally.”

  She laughed and jumped down from his desk gracelessly. “You mustn’t dislike me too much,” she said. “You sent me ten pounds as a Christmas present last year and told Mother I could spend it however I chose. I bought a very fetching hat, with an eye veil, if you please.” She pulled a freakishly charming face at him.

  Simon unlocked the top drawer of his desk. “I suppose that ten pounds is long since spent. Could you do with, say, five pounds more?”

  “Couldn’t I just! Mother promised me a pair of silk gloves for the party but with one thing and another there hasn’t been time.”

  “Tell me, Jane, isn’t there some nice man who’ll marry you and take you away?”

  “Not yet,” she said, closing her hand around the money. “But after next Friday, who can say?”

  He was still smiling at her nonsense as he started up the stairs. He’d hardly put his foot on the first step when the doorbell was sharply twisted by someone outside. Thinking it might be Julia arriving already, he didn’t wait for one of the servants to open it.

  “Winslow?”

  “Good afternoon, Archer.” The soldier wore civilian dress, very point-device. Simon saw himself blackly reflected in the other man’s shoes. “It’s a pleasure to see you again so soon.”

  He might express his pleasure but Simon realized Winslow was trying so hard to see past him into the house that he couldn’t be said to see the man before him at all. “Won’t you come in?”

  “Only for a moment. I’ve come about the cat.”

  “Cat?” Simon couldn’t very well tell Winslow that it wasn’t a cat at all but An-ket, Priestess of Hathor. He wondered suddenly if the reason Julia was returning to Carderock Square was neither because of his mother’s pressing nor from a desire to spend more time with himself. He hoped, but did not hope very much, that she wasn’t coming back to talk to the cat. She’d not mentioned her strange delusion after they’d left Mr. Keene’s office; he’d foolishly imagined that she’d forgotten it, as one forgets a dream upon waking. Squelching the memory of his own recent dreams, he repeated, “Which cat?”

  “I believe I mentioned this morning that I had come home rather late last night. At about the same time, I saw your sisters putting out a cat.” Again he looked past Simon, this time up the staircase. “Is it her ... their cat?”

  “No, it’s a stray.”

  “Oh. Oh, I see.” Why should the cat’s lack of ownership make a soldier look so downcast? He wouldn’t have supposed Robert Winslow was a sickly, sentimental type.

  “Perhaps that’s just as well,” he said. “M’father’s taken a liking to the creature. Pretty thing, or would be if it were fed adequately for a while. I’ll tell him that as she ... they don’t want it, he’s free to adopt it.”

  “He’s fond of cats, the general?”

  “It’s always been dogs, actually. Can’t keep them in town very well, except for lapdogs, and m’father’s always been fond of kicking that sort.”

  Simon tried to frame a question, but couldn’t seem to get beyond, “Does your father think the cat is talking to him?” which was hardly a question to ask about a noted and decorated officer. He said instead, “Quite a rare breed, that cat.”

  “Did you find it so? I thought it a common alley cat, but as I say, m’father’s taken to it. He’s been a trifle down-pin of late, what with my posting off to the end of the world and then being gone so often at night.”

  “I tell you what, Winslow. There’s a lady staying here with us. It may be that she wants the cat. I’ll stop by with her later, if that’s agreeable to you.”

  “A lady? A friend of Miss Archer’s, no doubt.”

  “No. A friend of mine ... she helps me with my work.”

  “Oh!” Winslow nodded as if he understood, but how could he when Simon didn’t understand his relationship with Julia himself.

  “Well, good day, Archer. Er... stop by the club one of these days. We’ll have a drink, eh? Talk about—er— Egypt. I passed through there on my first posting, you know.”

  As Simon closed the door behind Winslow, he found himself wondering whether his neighbor had received a touch of the sun while in India. He himself had never been susceptible, but he’d known many a man who’d come back from the desert wearing just such a dazed look.

  Reaching the top of the stairs, he knocked on Lucy’s door. “Lucy? It’s I, Simon.”

  “Ah. Yes, Simon?” Her voice was oddly muffled.

  “May I speak to you?” He heard a faint thump and a fainter “ting” as though something glass ha
d been struck. He rapped again. “Lucy? Are you all right?”

  “I was—er—about to lie down, Simon. I have a headache.”

  “Another headache? I’m sorry to hear that. I’ll only take a moment of your time. I wanted to tell you about Robert Winslow.”

  “Who?”

  “Winslow. Our neighbor.” He thought, but did not say, The man for whom you’ve been eating your heart out the last two years.

  When she opened the door a minute or two later, a waft of perfume amounting to a gust puffed out into the hall. He coughed. “No wonder you have a headache. You should open a window, Lucy.”

  “I tried. It’s stuck or something.”

  He entered to do it for her but stopped after a step or two. Her simply furnished room was, to be brutally honest, a fright. Every gown she owned lay tossed haphazardly on the bed, several sliding off even as he watched. On her dressing table, pots wore no lids, every bottle of perfume was open, her pins and necklaces strewn about as though she’d upended their boxes and shaken everything out. When he looked at her, however, she seemed unconscious of anything amiss, merely looking back with the expectation that he’d open a window.

  “It’s not stuck,” he said, after trying it. “You haven’t unlatched it.”

  “No? Oh, thank you ... Simon.”

  “Are you all right? You sound odd.”

  “Do I? It must be my head. It’s very bad.” She pressed her fingertips against her temple but all her movements were sluggish and somehow disjointed. “I’m going to lie down for a little while.”

  “Not until you clear off your bed.” He tried to chuckle but he was seriously concerned. He wished his mother would hurry home. “Do you want me to call the doctor?”

  Her answer was slow in coming. “No. I’ll be all right just as soon as I... rest.”

  “Very well,” he said. She waited for him to leave with just enough obviousness that he could not press her further. “But don’t you want to hear about Robert? I just saw him one moment ago.”

  “Did you?” she asked without any particular sign of interest. “I hope he’s well.”

  “He looked in tolerable health. Lucy ... are you ... ?”

  She yawned. “Oh, so tired. I had a busy night, but I can rest now. ‘Bye, Simoon ... I mean, Simon.” She smiled at him sleepily, batting her golden lashes.

  When Mrs. Archer came home, Simon took her aside and, without beating about the bush, asked straight out, “What is Lucy taking?”

  “Taking, my dear?”

  “Think, Mother. Are we missing any laudanum? Has there been an unusual amount of whiskey missing from the decanters?”

  “No, Simon, of course not. You know, you haven’t even greeted Miss Hanson.”

  He glanced at Julia. There was something different about her. “You’ve changed your dress,” he said abruptly.

  “Simon!” Mrs. Archer sounded shocked and, at the same time, pleased. “Where are your manners? Please forgive my son, Miss Hanson. He’s lived among savages so long he’s quite forgotten how to behave.”

  “I hope Mr. Archer will never need to stand on ceremony with me.”

  “That’s very sweet-natured of you, my dear, but you mustn’t encourage him to treat you like a sister. He has quite enough of those!”

  “By God, I should say I do. Where’s Amanda?”

  “She’s so good,” Julia said all too sweetly. “She stayed to help the maids with some dusting.”

  ‘The books, no doubt,” he said, snorting.

  “Why, yes. How clever of you.”

  Mrs. Archer had been looking from one to the other as they spoke with the air of women fatigued by a tennis game she had arranged herself. “Dear me, what good friends you are already. You’ll have the same room as before, Miss Hanson. And, Simon, kindly don’t keep her up to all hours discussing mummies or whatever it is.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  Julia laughed, and Simon felt that even the gods were conspiring against him when she said, “I can’t promise not to keep him up all night.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Julia could tell that Simon was deeply worried about Lucy when he asked three times during the course of one dinner whether his sister would be joining the family. Finally, his mother diverted his mind by remembering, suddenly, that a crate had been delivered earlier in the day.

  “It’s from Egypt, I think. At least it had that strange writing on it. I always think, Miss Hanson, looks as though it had been written with a shoelace trailed through ink.”

  “Arabic is such a beautiful language, Mrs. Archer. Like Chinese, writing it well is an art form much practiced by their scholars.”

  “How very interesting. Simon, why don’t you ever tell me interesting things like that?”

  Julia met his eyes. They were seated next to each other, Mrs. Archer on his other side. She felt sure that he’d often tried to interest his mother in his work, just as she was sure Mrs. Archer had only met his overtures with politeness and a swift escape into her own doings. Her father was just the same.

  “The box is most likely filled with papyri,” Simon said, as he began to eat more quickly. “I asked my man out there to keep an eye out for anything that looked good. I am especially interested in rent rolls, storehouse inventories, and such.”

  “How mundane,” Jane said. “Give me a good love poem. Or didn’t your dusty old Egyptians write such things?”

  Before Simon could say anything pointed, Julia said, “They wrote some beautiful and moving love lyrics, but there is so much we can learn from these other records. Things about their day-to-day lives—what they ate, what other nations they engaged in commerce—a myriad of questions solved from one scrap of writing.”

  Jane said, “You’re as bad as Simon! I’m interested in today only. If a man were handsome enough, he might interest me in the doings of last week, but no man could involve me in things that happened thousands of years ago!”

  “Except Dr. Dawley,” her mother said chidingly. She explained in an aside, ‘The dean of St. Suplice. His doctrine is very sound.”

  “I’ll look forward to hearing him on Sunday.”

  “Oh, no. He’s on leave just now. Visiting the Holy Land, or Blackpool. Somewhere like that. I’m not quite sure which.” She seemed to think this odd herself, and added, “It’s his wife, you see. She tends to hop about from subject to subject and if it’s the least bit noisy—as it was at the tea when she told me—it’s so easy to become confused. I know she mentioned Jerusalem ...”

  Julia rescued her by saying, “I will look forward to hearing him another time.”

  Simon leaned close to Julia under pretense of retrieving his napkin. “The dean is capable of leaving for Blackpool and ending up in the Holy Land without noticing for a week. His wife is very hard of hearing and might answer a question with the first word she thinks of.”

  “And they rely on each other utterly, I’ll wager.”

  “A very devoted couple,” he answered, smiling into her eyes. She felt herself coloring, for there had been something intimate in his tone. Another cause for the heat in her face was the way he looked tonight. The crisp black of his formal clothes set off his topaz-golden hair and the dazzling white of his shirt gave distinction to his tanned skin. He’d been handsome enough in his everyday clothes to turn her head. Wearing evening clothes, Simon Archer was nothing less than godlike.

  “Perhaps, if you are not too tired, we could open the box after we’ve eaten,” he suggested, loud enough to be heard by the others. “Wouldn’t you girls like to be present?”

  Amanda said, “You forget, Simon. We’ve seen you open boxes like that before. They always look so intriguing on the outside, Miss Hanson, like something from a novel. They look like they should contain fascinating secrets, maps to lost treasures or something. But they never do. Such a dull way to pass an evening. But maybe you’ll be lucky and find a love poem or two.” The two girls giggled, while their mother looked severe.

  Julia wo
ndered if anyone in the house was unaware of Mrs. Archer’s ambitions. She would have been more perturbed by them if she had not come to London with a similar intention. But of course, she’d given up the idea now.

  She said, “Actually, I’ve often wondered if parts of the Song of Solomon weren’t originally written with an Egyptian influence. So much of the imagery is the same as we see in the tomb art and papryi.”

  “Yes,” Simon said, stroking his chin. “It seems to me I remember some reference to ... to Pharaoh’s chariots. Seems unlikely in a love poem, but...”

  Julia said softly, “ ‘I have compared thee, oh my love, to a company of horses in Pharaoh’s chariots.’ “

  She realized too late that she’d been gazing at Simon as she quoted. Hastily, she addressed the women at the table. “I don’t see why a Jewish poet would think that there was anything beautiful in the chariots of his oppressors. Of course, one must allow for the errors of the seventeenth-century translation. One day, perhaps, I will try my hand at translating it myself.”

  “But that would take years,” Mrs. Archer said. “Quite apart from everything else a woman must accomplish if she is to be happy. You’ll find that marriage and the raising of your children will be sufficient challenge for an intelligent woman.”

  “Oh, I doubt I shall ever marry. My work will have to be my children.”

  Mrs. Archer tittered. “No woman ever wants to marry until the right man proposes.”

  “I’m quite taken with your theory,” Simon said, apparently not having heard a word. “I don’t remember the Song very well; I last read it when I was, I fear, a callow boy. I shall have to take another look, keeping your ideas in mind.”

  Julia sat with the ladies while Simon enjoyed a glass of port in lonely splendor. She would rather have sat with him, being used to remaining with her father when they ate alone, and even sipping a small glass herself, but she plainly saw that such unorthodox behavior would trouble Mrs. Archer. So she talked to her while Jane strummed a mandolin and Amanda read some improving book. Her reference to exciting novels had not gone unnoticed.