The Bridal Season

by Connie Brockway

  Indeed, she’d sharpened her impersonation of a lady on his suggestions, since Sammy, when not snarling and feinting at the enthralled women in the first row, had always comported himself as a first-class gentleman. Or rather, first-class butler, she now realized.

  She’d never inquired about how he’d come by his impeccable deportment—those who made their living on the stage didn’t ask too closely after another’s past.

  “What happened, Sammy, er, Cabot? Where’s all your…your—”

  “Fur?”

  “Yes. I didn’t recognize you. And what’s with the butler act?”

  “It’s not an act,” Cabot said. “My father served the Earl of Prescott as a butler, Letty. From the time I could toddle, my dad raised me to be a butler like him.”

  At Letty’s querying expression, he chuckled. “I wasn’t born covered with hair, you know. But the closer I got to adolescence, the hairier I grew. It soon became apparent that my physical appearance would keep me from following in my father’s footsteps. So I came to London where I found work in the music halls. And that’s where I met your mother and stepfather. It was a good enough life,” he said, a nostalgic gleam in his eyes. “But as the years went by, my hair started to fall out. Got to the point where I had to glue fur on to make myself look like my posters. Finally, about four years ago, I had to quit the stage altogether.”

  “I’m sorry,” Letty said softly.

  Cabot looked at her in surprise. “I’m not. I could finally look for work as a butler. I applied at several of the employment agencies, but few people wanted a fifty-year-old butler with no work experience. Then, one day I was interviewed by this dear, unsophisticated woman wanting to hire ‘a real London butler’ for her brother up north. I gave her Lord Prescott’s name as a recommendation, and…well, here I am.”

  “And you enjoy it?” Letty asked curiously. “Don’t you miss the city, the lights, your old mates?”

  “Not too much,” he said. “Though I still trade letters with Benny,” he said, referring to Ben Black, The Human Dynamo. “I have everything I want, Letty. I have the respect of my peers—at least most of them—the care of a fine home, and most importantly, I am able to do what I was brought up to do.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “I envy you, Cabot.”

  He cocked his head quizzically. “How so?”

  “You know what you are. It seems you’ve always known.”

  “Well, Letty, you know who you are, too,” he offered kindly.

  She shook her head. “Who I am. But not what.”

  “Why, Letty,” Cabot said, casting about for an answer to her unvoiced question. “You’re…you’re…the best time the English stage has ever known, that’s what you are! No one could make folks tap their toes or smile like you did, Letty.”

  “A good time,” she whispered. “Is that what I am?” She met his eye. “Well, I’m afraid I’m not even that, anymore. Leastways there’s certain people in London who wouldn’t think so.”

  “Nick Sparkle being to blame?” Cabot asked flatly. She wasn’t about to accuse Nick of those things she’d done, or been party to, of her own free will. If she had it all to do over again, she’d do the same. Or would she? The prickly question posed by her conscience caused her to lift her chin defiantly. She’d done what she’d done and she wasn’t going to start apologizing now.

  “I won’t talk about Nick. You only need know that he’s not here and he’s not coming here. Other than that, the subject’s closed.” She forced a smile to her lips. “I still can’t believe you like rusticating up here in the midst of nowhere.”

  He regarded her closely a moment before relaxing. “But I do. The only thing that has kept me from being perfectly content is the fear that someday someone will find out that the very proper butler Cabot was once Sam-Sam, The Spaniel-Faced Boy.”

  “Snobs, are they?” Letty said knowingly.

  “Something terrible,” Cabot confirmed.

  Of course they were, Letty thought The Bigglesworths were blue bloods, even if they didn’t have a title. Just because Eglantyne had seemed so down-to-earth didn’t mean that she couldn’t toss her nose as high as the next aristocrat.

  Letty knew the type well. She remembered one stage-door Johnnie particularly well. He’d had lovely manners and respectful ways, until a lady of his acquaintance showed up at the restaurant where he’d taken Letty for lunch. Then he’d not only forgotten Letty’s name, it seemed he didn’t even know how they happened to be dining together. After that, Letty had declined any more gracious offers to dine and stuck with her own kind. Still, it was a bit of a disappointment. She’d thought just maybe the Bigglesworths were different. Ah, well.

  “To blazes with them,” she told Cabot. “And good riddance.”

  “Easy to say,” Cabot answered with a sigh. “You don’t have to work with them.”

  “Work with them? My, that’s a nice democratic way of putting it.”

  “I try,” Cabot said, “to encourage by example. If I treat them as equals, I hope eventually they will learn to deal with others in the same way. Especially that harridan of a cook, Grace Poole—”

  “Grace Poole? What are you talking about?” Letty asked in bewilderment.

  “The staff,” Cabot said. “Who else?”

  “The staff are snobs?” Letty asked in amazement. “Not the Bigglesworths?”

  “The Bigglesworths are the most fair-minded and generous people I have ever known,” Cabot said. “Their staff however, is another matter. They are magnificent in their snobbery.” He smiled. “And speaking of snobbery, you’ve the way of a grande dame down pat, Letty. You’ve quite taken everyone in, I don’t mind telling you.”

  “Really?” Letty asked, flattered.

  “Oh, yes. But you always did have a knack for an impersonation. It’s a shame you squandered your talents in Nick Sparkle’s scams.”

  Letty’s smile faded. “I thought we’d agreed that subject—”

  “I suppose I haven’t any right to judge,” Cabot broke in. “But you were a nice kid, Letty. Tough as nails, but good-hearted.”

  “I’m still good-hearted,” Letty declared.

  “Then don’t mention to the staff anything about my former career. I’d never live it down.”

  “Not I,” Letty vowed, and then, “if you don’t tell anyone about my little secret.”

  “That,” Cabot answered slowly, “I cannot promise. I owe the Bigglesworths gratitude as well as loyalty, Letty. They assume people are decent. So, you see, I have to look after their best interests, Letty, since they refuse to do it for themselves.”

  “Well,” Letty said, “they won’t be harmed by me.”

  Cabot didn’t look overly reassured. “I trust your word, Letty, but what about Nick Sparkle?”

  “I swear to you, Nick has no part in this. No part at all,” she vowed, hesitating a moment before going on. She would have gone into the details about her split with Nick Sparkle, but time was flying. Soon Eglantyne and Angela would be back. But she had to tell him something to reassure him.

  “I was in a bit of a spot in London, Sammy, er, Cabot. So I went to St. Pancras even though I didn’t have much money and I didn’t have anywhere to go. I was just hoping something would turn up. And it did! While I was sitting there I saw the real Lady Agatha throw away her train ticket. So I picked it up.”

  “And came here,” Cabot said.

  Letty nodded. “I didn’t even mean to impersonate Lady Agatha, I was just taking advantage of a spot of good luck. I’m only here for a day or so, then I’m off. When I go I’ll take some of Lady Agatha’s things, I won’t lie to you about that, but I promise I won’t take anything that belongs to the Bigglesworths.”

  Cabot eyed her closely a minute. “Where is Lady Agatha?”

  “On her honeymoon.” Letty leaned back in her chair and smiled ruefully at Cabot’s amazed expression. “That’s why she dropped her ticket. Her husband-to-be chased her to ground at St. Pancras Station. Quit
e romantic. ‘Leave everything behind and come with me now or never, Agatha!’”

  Cabot shook his head. “The poor Bigglesworths.”

  Letty frowned in exasperation. “I told you, I won’t—”

  “I’m not speaking of you, Letty. I’m talking about Lady Agatha. She couldn’t pick a worse time to elope. The Bigglesworths were counting on her to see that Miss Angela’s wedding comes off properly.”

  “Well, that’s not my problem, is it?” Letty said defensively. “In the final tally, whether I’m here or not won’t make a bit of difference to the Bigglesworths.”

  “Maybe they’d have time to find someone else if they knew Lady Agatha had failed them.”

  “Two days isn’t going to make that much of a difference.” She stared at him imploringly.

  “All right, Letty,” Cabot finally said heavily, “as long as you don’t nip off with any of the Bigglesworths’ belongings, I won’t say anything. Probably serves Lady Agatha right for being so cavalier with Miss Angela’s fate. But if you’re here three days from now, I’m going to Sir Elliot.”

  “You do what you have to.”

  He did not reply.

  “What does Cabot have to do?” Eglantyne asked. Letty swung around to find Eglantyne and Angela standing in the doorway. She smoothed her face to a bland expression. “Find me some fresh strawberries. Apparently, your cook’s hoarding them.”

  “Oh.” Eglantyne nudged Angela into the room. “Cabot, please find Lady Agatha some strawberries.”

  “At once, madam.” Cabot inclined his head and withdrew.

  Eglantyne twisted the watch pinned to her bodice. “Oh. My. Look at the time,” she said. “Our guests shall be arriving soon and there’s still so much to do. Angela, won’t you keep Lady Agatha company while I see that the croquet field is properly set up?”

  Letty held back a smile. As a means of throwing the two of them together, Eglantyne could have been more subtle. Poor Angela blushed as Eglantyne fled the room.

  “I’m so sorry if this is an imposition,” Angela said.

  “Not at all, Miss Bigglesworth,” Letty said. “Won’t you join me?”

  Angela took a seat looking as happy as if she’d just been asked to answer a few questions for the Inquisition. Fine lines framed her mouth, and sleeplessness had bruised the area beneath her eyes. Eglantyne was right: Something was definitely amiss with the bride-to-be.

  “I hope your rooms are in order,” Angela finally broke the silence.

  “Everything is lovely. Thank you.” They smiled at each other uncertainly.

  “Here you go, ma’am.” Grace Poole came bustling into the room wheeling a cart piled with a bowl of strawberries, clotted cream, scones, and a pot of coffee.

  Letty’s mouth watered. She hadn’t eaten since early yesterday morning and that a greasy bit of fish from a street vendor.

  “I’m eager to see the materials to which you referred in your letters,” Angela said.

  “Um,” she said, nodding enthusiastically when Grade pointed at the berries and cocked a brow inquiringly.

  “I only wish I didn’t have to wear a white gown. I have never felt very attractive in white.”

  Letty held up three fingers in response to Grace’s silent inquiry as to how many sugar lumps she wanted in her coffee, then gave her attention to Angela’s words. Anyone in the theatre understood the importance of color in stage design. And what was a wedding anyway but a production, only with the audience seated in pews? “Not every white looks the same on every complexion, Miss Angela.”

  “Really?” Angela asked hopefully “Really.” She studied the girl. Angela’s self-assessment was right. A bleached blue-white would make her look pasty, and dull her soft blond hair. “A pinky-white for you, Miss Angela,” she mused, an image of the shatoosh silk she’d unpacked last night springing to mind. It had a breath of delicate abalone-shell pink beneath its glowing surface. Body without stiffness. Virginal yet stylish.

  Warning bells went off in her head. She didn’t stop to heed them, she simply plowed ahead. “I have just the thing up in my room.”

  “You do?” Angela’s face was a study in hopefulness. “Hm.” She reached for a scone and took a bite. Delicious! Her eyes rolled back in her head and she directed some sort of yummy sound in Grace’s general vicinity. Grace accepted the accolade with equanimity and retreated from the room.

  It took Letty a few minutes to realize that while she was methodically tucking away every bit of food on her plate, Angela was watching her in surprise.

  “A healthy appetite is indicative of a generous nature,” Letty said, dredging up a maxim.

  “I am sure that your appetite must be quite large, then.” Angela frowned as if her words hadn’t quite come out right, colored, and continued. “I mean, you are most generous in giving up all your High-Society endeavors to come to us in Little Bidewell.”

  “My dear Miss Angela,” Letty said, “what Society could possibly be higher than a marquis’s?”

  Angela’s face crumpled.

  “Why, m’dear, what’s wrong? You don’t look very happy.”

  “Oh, I am,” Angela said quickly. “I wish to wed Hughie above all things! I love him so! It’s just that, well, things would be so much simpler if he weren’t a marquis.

  “You can’t imagine what it’s like, Lady Agatha. Whenever I’m with his family I go in terror that I might make some unforgivable faux pas and be revealed as the insignificant creature I am.”

  “Oh, believe me,” Letty murmured, “I understand.”

  “I’m just not comfortable pretending to be something that I’m not,” Angela said.

  Finally, a subject Letty knew something about. She waved her fork instructively. “First and most important, you must believe yourself into the role. When push comes to shove, simple self-confidence can mask any little missteps.”

  “I can’t believe you have ever misstepped, Lady Agatha.”

  “Well,” Letty lowered her eyes modestly, “I’m sure I must have made some mistake at some time or other.”

  “I’m just not going to be any good at being a great lady. There’s all these rules and codes and dictums…” Angela said.

  “Just be guided by your own good sense and, of course, a discreet observation of those whom you would emulate, and you will succeed.”

  “I’ve been studying this.” Angela said, reaching into her skirt pocket and withdrawing a well-thumbed, softbound book. She handed it to Letty. Our Decorum: Etiquette and Manners for Ladies of Breeding. “But I see now that your advice is the best. I shall simply watch how you do things and comport myself accordingly.”

  Only supreme self-control enabled Letty to keep from choking. “Now, Miss Angela, that isn’t what I meant,” she croaked. Dear God! If she ended up being responsible for breaking this girl’s engagement, she’d never forgive herself. “I am quite sure you could find more suitable people to pattern your manners after. After all, I am sure my deportment has…” she cast about, “has suffered through the necessity of my having to work for a living.”

  “Never,” Angela said staunchly.

  Letty smiled weakly. “Besides, you are already as admirable and well-bred a girl as any man could wish to wed. Sheffield is lucky to make you his wife.”

  Angela stared at her in stricken silence, as if a friend had suddenly turned on her.

  “Angela? What is it?” she asked in alarm. The girl’s face was pale and her lips trembled.

  “Nothing,” Angela said hastily, turning her head. “It’s just that I’m not as good as you…or…or Hughie think I am.” Her breath caught on her betrothed’s name and she blinked rapidly.

  There was more here than Letty had first thought. But Angela wasn’t ready to confide in Letty. Not yet, but—Letty gave herself a sharp, mental slap. What was she thinking, ‘not yet’?! If she was lucky, not ever.

  But then, it wouldn’t hurt to give the poppet a spot of joy, would it? It certainly wasn’t because of maudlin sentime
ntality or some misplaced desire to be a do-gooder that she decided to show Angela the shatoosh upstairs; it was only out of artistic curiosity. To see if she still had as good an eye as her mother had once claimed.

  “I know,” she said. “Before the guests arrive for your aunt’s picnic, why don’t we nip upstairs and take a look-see at that material I was talking about?”

  The suggestion worked like a charm. What woman could resist the pleasure of sorting through fabrics and poring over patterns? Ten minutes later they were in Letty’s room, Angela’s eyes dry as the desert and bright as the stars as she sorted through all the wonderful things Letty showed her.

  Chapter 10

  Kindness costs nothing.

  The afternoon was fine. Only a few clouds disturbed the porcelain-blue tranquility overhead. A freshening breeze had earlier flirted with the ladies’ picture hats, but even this subsided as the afternoon drew on.

  The croquet field had been set up on the back lawn and along one side of it the servants had raised several open-sided marquees. Beneath the striped awnings, tables and chairs waited invitingly, while rugs had been spread beneath the open sky. At each place waited a wicker picnic basket overflowing with cold meat pies and fruit, jellies and flaky scones, fresh cheese and the promised pièce de résistance, a mouthwatering strawberry trifle. Sweating tin canisters stood beside these, filled with lemonade for those who chose not to imbibe and ale for those who did.

  Lady Agatha Whyte, standing in the reception line beside Anton and Eglantyne Bigglesworth, did. And had before, as evinced by the easy way she quaffed the ale from a ceramic mug and licked the froth from her upper lip.

  Sir Elliot arrived with his father and greeted the Bigglesworths, and tried with only moderate success to keep his eyes from straying toward Letty. But her eyes were alight with private laughter and her dark auburn hair blazed in the bright afternoon sun. She’d dressed in a swirling, close-fitting gown, her every movement exaggerating the ripe—

  He gave himself a mental shake and bowed over Eglantyne’s hand. Then Eglantyne turned toward Lady Agatha, saying something about having introduced him yesterday, and he was before her, carrying her hand to his lips. He lifted his eyes as he kissed the back of her hand. Her eyes darkened, her lips parted. He heard her inhale softly.