A Bright Young Thing

by Brianne Moore

  “Is it really so bad?” My throat stuck at the thought of the misery wrought by the last war. I was very young, but I had certainly seen the results. Dozens of boys from the Hensley neighborhood had failed to return, or returned missing pieces of themselves—limbs, eyes, nerves. Every town and village had its memorial etched with row upon row of names. Cemeteries seemed overly full, and the second Sunday in November was now a day of black clothes and muffled bells.

  “We’ll be at war with someone,” Dunreaven confirmed in a voice as somber as those bells. “India, Spain, Germany … I don’t see how we can avoid it. All this unrest, it’s bound to bubble over at some point. You can only placate people for so long.”

  I didn’t like the idea of him going off to war. Or David or Beckworth or Hampton or any of the other men I knew. The thought of waterlogged trenches and ships blasted by torpedoes sent a chill through me. I needed to ease us away from this or risk bursting into tears.

  “I should start traveling,” I said in a falsely bright voice. “See the world while I still can.”

  Dunreaven seemed to rouse himself from a deep thought. He, too, brightened artificially. “I’m terribly sorry. What a dark subject I’ve brought up on a day that should be hopeful. Yes, do travel as much as you possibly can. It opens your eyes and mind in the most wonderful ways. And a change of scenery does everyone a bit of good.”

  “Mmm, an opportunity to get away from it all,” I murmured without thinking.

  He gave me an arch look. “And what do you want to escape from?”

  “Secret admirers, Lord Dunreaven.”

  He laughed. “I thought ladies liked those sorts of things.”

  “Some ladies do,” I allowed, “but I’m afraid I’m not one of them. I like a man who’s not afraid to own his bouquets and mysterious notes.”

  He frowned. “I’ll confess to the bouquet, but I don’t know anything about notes.”

  “No? You didn’t leave a note in my room at Gryden Hall?”

  He chuckled. “As you well know, I prefer a more percussive form of communication. It sounds as though I have a rival.”

  “Then you’ll both be disappointed, I’m afraid.”

  “Is that so? That’s not something I’m accustomed to hearing.”

  “I’m sure it isn’t. Your face and title must smooth the way enormously.”

  “Not always, clearly.”

  “One can’t have everything. Weren’t you taught that when you were young?”

  A fleeting smile. “I was. And yet, I keep expecting things. Or hoping for them.”

  “‘Hope springs eternal in the human breast,’” I quoted.

  “It does. And what do you hope for, Miss Davies?”

  “Peace. In all things.”

  “I very much hope you get it.”

  I sighed. “Right now, that seems unlikely.”

  “Oh?”

  “If you had someone like Freddie in your life, would you expect a peaceful time?”

  “I’m inclined to be optimistic about him. He’s excitable and was enjoying himself overmuch. He’s hardly the only one: half the men at the club were cradling pots of coffee and glasses of bicarb this morning. He may come all right in the end.”

  “How very generous you are to the boy.” A bitter edge crept into my voice.

  “Boy?” Dunreaven chuckled. “He must be close to my age. If he’s a boy, then what am I?”

  I laughed. “You? Why, you’re a lord!”

  “What, and is a lord not a man like other men?” he asked, clasping a hand dramatically to his breast. “If you prick us, do we not bleed?”

  “Of course!” I answered spiritedly. “But the blood is blue.”

  “No, no, I assure you, my blood’s as red as any other man’s.”

  There was a devilry to his smile, and my heart sped up.

  “I have a confession to make,” he told me. “I came here today hoping to catch you off your guard, but now I see you’re too clever for that.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “Do you want to rattle me?”

  “Maybe a little,” he responded, again with a roguish smile. “As I said last night, I want to get to know you. I thought it might be easier when you haven’t had time to plan clever responses to fob me off.”

  Now both my eyebrows shot up. “Do you think that’s how I spend my time? Anticipating what you’ll say so I can bank my witty replies?”

  “It seems to be what a lot of women do.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “You don’t think much of the fairer sex, Lord Dunreaven.”

  “Quite the contrary, Miss Davies: I think about certain members a great deal.”

  “This is starting to sound dangerously like flirtation, Lord Dunreaven.”

  He leaned toward me, eyes gleaming. “Are you afraid you’ll have to call Toby in to defend your honor?”

  “I’m perfectly capable of defending it myself, thank you,” I answered briskly.

  “You are indeed,” he agreed. “Where is Toby anyway? It’s very quiet.”

  “Everyone is either out or nursing headaches,” I explained. “Toby gave the staff a bottle of something nice. A way of thanking them for sticking it out for another year.”

  “Is it really so terrible?” he asked.

  By way of answer, I gestured to the room.

  He laughed. “I’m glad to know I wasn’t wrong when I thought this didn’t seem like your ideal surroundings.”

  “No, but it’s not the sort of thing I have much control over. A girl can hardly live on her own and be considered respectable.”

  “Can she not?”

  “Only if she’s very careful. By which I mean she leads a very, very dull life.”

  “I should hate to wish that on you.” He glanced at my piano. “Yours, I take it?”

  I nodded as he walked over to it, running his hands gently along the smooth wooden curves as though he were getting a feel for it.

  “A fine instrument,” he declared. “May I?” He gestured to the keys.

  “Please do.”

  He seated himself. “What would you like to hear?”

  “I always leave that up to the musician.”

  With a beguiling grin, he began playing “Stardust.”

  I chuckled once I recognized it. “You play well.”

  “Not nearly as well as you.”

  “It’s expected of me. Boys and young men are given so much to do—you’re meant to go out and accomplish things. But girls are only meant to be accomplished. At suitably feminine arts, of course. Dancing, painting, music. I’m a hopeless painter, so …”

  “But not a hopeless dancer,” he pointed out.

  “You’re too kind. I think some credit must go to the partner.”

  He smiled and inclined his head in acknowledgment of the compliment.

  “Who taught you to play?” I asked. “It’s an unusual talent for a man.”

  “My grandmother,” Dunreaven explained as he stumbled over a few notes. “I used to spend a great deal of time at the dower house when I was young.”

  “Did you? I don’t know many boys who want to spend their days with their grannies. She must have been quite a lady.”

  He took his time answering. “Yes, she was,” he said with a ghost of a wistful smile. “It was peaceful there.”

  I sensed a hurt there. A deep bruise that struggled to heal. I felt an urge to reach out and comfort him, so strong I clasped my hands together, to control them. It wasn’t for me to soothe him. That was the job of a lover.

  I cast about for another topic of conversation. “Will you stay in London?”

  “I’m afraid not. I’m back to Midbourne in three days.”

  “Yes, of course. Those large estates don’t run themselves. You’ve got all those tenants and farmers and the like looking to you for direction. I don’t envy you that. Most days I feel it’s quite enough to try to manage my own life.”

  “We’re in agreement, then.” He had finished the song and now glanced out
the nearby window, absently twisting a gold signet ring he wore on his right hand. Round and round and round it went.

  “You’ll wear a track,” I warned, nodding toward the ring.

  He stopped worrying it. “Not much escapes your notice.”

  “Nonsense—plenty of things do. Just not the really obvious ones. Though I suppose I should be a good little girl and keep quiet about the things I see.”

  He turned to me. “Is that what they tell you to do?”

  “Oh yes. Secrets are ammunition. We need to build up our arsenal for later use.”

  “You all sound frightening.” He crossed to the window and looked out on the dreary street.

  “You needn’t worry,” I reassured him. “Everyone’s too busy trying to impress you to want to winnow anything out.”

  He turned to me. “Not everyone.”

  “Well,” I said, shrugging, “as I said, no one can have everything.”

  “That’s a shame.” He sighed, returning to the armchair. “Because this year I am resolved to settle down.”

  “Are you indeed?” I tried to keep my tone light. “Well, you’ll have no shortage of takers eager to help you whip Midbourne into shape. In no time at all you’ll be drowning in a sea of satin debutantes and their be-furred mothers. I hope you can hold your breath for a long time.”

  “I can. It’s something else they taught us in the navy.”

  “Good. You’ll need it. Once you make your intentions known, there will hardly be a girl in London who won’t be chasing you down.”

  “Except you, it seems.”

  “Well,” I said as blithely as I could manage, “my resolution is for 1931 to be far less complicated than 1930 was. I’d certainly like less upheaval, and nothing heaves one quite so much as a trip to the altar. Please don’t take it personally. Besides,” I added, crossing to the piano and tinkling out some Vivaldi, “Millicent’s got her eye on you, and I’d really rather not draw down her fire on my head.”

  He watched me for a little while, then asked: “Has it always been like this between the two of you?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like a pair of tigresses circling each other.”

  “Gosh, you make us sound so exotic!”

  He shook his head, bemused. “I admit it’s entertaining, but it must be exhausting.”

  “It’s not my doing. I’d be perfectly happy to be civil to her, but she won’t have it. You saw how she was during the shooting weekend.”

  He sighed. “She did behave poorly.”

  “She’s a good old-fashioned bully, and I have no patience for that. I’d heard you felt similarly.”

  He frowned and thought about that for a while. “I think you’re a bit hard on her. She hasn’t had an easy time of it, you know. It was very difficult when her mother died. Apparently her ladyship did not go quietly, and Millicent was there at the end.”

  I paused, the light tune suddenly seeming wrong. “I don’t know anything about it,” I admitted, abashed. “Cee was away when it happened and was told that her mother died of influenza. It was quick and she didn’t suffer.” I thought about how Millicent was before and after her mother’s death and concluded, “But Millicent was always a bully.”

  “Still, we are all shaped by our tragedies, are we not?”

  Oh, we are. I could already attest to that.

  I began playing Chopin, and Dunreaven studied me in silence. Under his gaze I could feel a warmth creeping up the back of my neck.

  “Are you working me out?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t dare try! Puzzling you, I think, is a better way to phrase it.”

  “Have you got me puzzled out then?”

  “No, not in the least. And I think I like it that way. There’s an air of mystery.” He smiled playfully, but I didn’t respond in kind. I didn’t like him sensing my secrets. He began to look uncomfortable and returned to the window.

  I continued playing and left him with his thoughts for a while. As the song drew to a close I said, “Why don’t you tell me about Midbourne?”

  “Midbourne,” he breathed, joining me at the piano, “is a fine old house that’s stood the test of time and deserves to be taken care of. It needs a woman’s touch.”

  I smirked. “Hence your resolution. You’re definitely looking in the right place if what you want is a wife to make you a comfortable home. Most of us were educated to a decorative degree. We’re excellent at choosing wallpapers and arranging flowers.”

  I left the piano and fetched a cigarette. “May I offer you one?” I held up the case.

  “No, that’s all right,” Dunreaven said. “I’m sure I’ve taken up enough of your time today. I only wanted to wish you a happy New Year.”

  “And to rattle me,” I said with a smile. “A happy New Year to you too, Lord Dunreaven. I hope you get everything you wish for.”

  * * *

  I turned twenty-four on the eighteenth of January and expected little more than a paper-dry kiss from my aunt and a cheery “Getting old, now, aren’t you?” from Toby. So I was a little surprised to receive a large, rectangular envelope in the afternoon post. Inside was a watercolor painting on thick cardstock and a note on Rosedale stationary.

  Dear Miss Davies,

  Raymond wanted to send you a little something to wish you a happy birthday. Many happy returns.

  Sincerely, Jane Kitt

  Raymond knew it was my birthday? And he painted? It hadn’t occurred to me that he would have hobbies or interests—Aunt El made him seem incapable of doing much at all. Clearly, that wasn’t the case.

  Mother had been a painter. I’d always been sorry I had no talent for it. Was this something she was able to share with him? It touched me to think of the two of them, side by side, painting away in companionable silence or encouraging each other’s work.

  The picture was a little clumsy—like something a young child might produce—but so bright and cheerful it made me smile just to look at it. Raymond had painted me flowers. A row of stems with smeary blossoms on top. How did he know I loved flowers?

  There wasn’t time to ponder that further because all of a sudden Cee burst into the drawing room, squealing, “Happy birthday, darling!” and throwing her arms around me. Joyce followed at a more sedate pace, looking around in undisguised horror as I set Raymond’s painting aside.

  “God, this place,” Joyce murmured. “It’s just like your aunt, isn’t it? Dark, narrow, and devoid of comfort.”

  “I don’t know,” said Cecilia, “it’s rather quaint. Dickensian.”

  “Yes, Bleak House,” Joyce rejoined.

  “Joyce, for heaven’s sake, don’t be unkind!” Cee chided.

  “I’m sorry,” Joyce said, without a hint of contrition. “Happy birthday, Astra. I just can’t imagine why you want to stay here.”

  “Oh,” I said, kissing her cheek, “it’s so lonely in the countryside, and buying a place in London seems such a bother.”

  Joyce rolled her eyes as she perched gingerly on the sofa. “Don’t tell me about that. David’s been so sulky about staying at Daddy’s that I told him we should find a house of our own in Town. But it’s such a bore looking at houses, and you can never find one that’s just right, can you? Anyway, I’ve got my hands full with everything we’re doing at Wotting. I practically had to gut the place.”

  “Oh, Astra, who sent flowers?” Cee asked, bouncing in her seat and pointing to the bouquet of roses that had arrived that morning.

  “Just a friend.”

  “Friend indeed,” said Joyce with a wicked look. “No friend sends roses.” Before I could stop her, she walked over to the bouquet and picked up the card. She read through it, and her eyes drifted up to meet mine as she held up the card for Cecilia to see. “‘Many happy returns—J.H.’ In Morse code.”

  Cecilia clapped her hands over her mouth as her eyes widened in delight. “Oh, Astra, darling—Jeremy!”

  “Don’t tell Millicent,” I pleaded.

  Cecilia
shook her head solemnly. “Our secret, darling. Oh, how marvelous!”

  Joyce replaced the card and returned to her seat. “Well, I’m sure our gifts will pale in comparison, Cee, but let’s find out, shall we? Jeffries? Bring forth the offerings!”

  The door opened and the butler entered, carrying a covered basket at full arm’s length. His head was turned away, as if it contained a pungent dragon. He set it down in front of me.

  “Will that be all, miss?” he asked me, edging back toward the door.

  “Yes, thank you, Jeffries.”

  “Open it up!” Cecilia urged as the basket rocked and whined. I lifted the lid and up popped the velvety, honey-brown head of a King Charles spaniel puppy.

  “Oh, Joyce!” I cried, scooping up the little creature and cradling him. He licked my chin, then looked around the room and whimpered. “Is he one of Louly’s?”

  Joyce nodded, patting the puppy on his waggling rump. “The only boy of the lot. He’s the perfect man: lovely to look at, doesn’t answer back, and with proper training, will do whatever you want. Much better than a husband.”

  “Joyce, really,” I chided. Joyce smiled a little mischievously. The puppy wiggled, so I put him down and let him explore. He had Blenheim coloring, all brown and pearly white, with a kissing spot on the top of his head and a freckle-like spattering of spots over his snout. Everything about him invited affection and cuddles.

  “I adore him! Thank you so much,” I gushed.

  “Your aunt won’t mind, I hope?” Cee asked tentatively.

  “I’ll win her over,” I replied with more confidence than I felt. Reilly had been bad enough, but a dog? That would take a lot of persuading. And I sensed she was still sour with me over my Rosedale sleuthing.

  “All right, Cee, your turn,” Joyce invited.

  Cee, bouncing up and down in her seat as if she were being electrocuted, produced a postcard with a flourish. On one side was a picture of the Eiffel Tower, and on the other a message:

  Twenty-four, darling! You deserve a nice trip to Paris. My treat! We’ll go for the spring shows and spend ourselves silly! I’ll accept no refusals!—Cee

  “Cecilia!” I gasped.

  “Oh, darling,” Cee reached over and grasped my hand, eyes shining, “we’re going to Paris, the three of us. And I’ll treat you to a few dresses too.”