Simply Scandalous

by Tamara Lejeune

  "I do like oysters," she conceded, inclining her head graciously to her opponent. "I like them smoked and stewed. But I would not be adverse to trying them served cold with lemon."

  Horatio had listened to Juliet and Swale cross swords with growing displeasure. He was not accustomed to sharing his cousin's attention with other gentlemen, and it troubled him deeply thatJuliet had allowed herself to be goaded into exchanging rather vulgar insults with the man. It showed a want of propriety that, he feared, might reflect badly on himself and his family. He took control of the conversation as the sweet was brought in and steered it toward Walter Scott's poetry, a subject that he knew always interested Juliet.

  Swale, who had no stomach for poetry, maintained a sullen silence as the cherry sorbet did its best to eliminate the taste of burnt carrots from his mouth. In due course, the ladies withdrew. Dr. Cary unburdened himself of his political views for three quarters of an hour, and then the gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the little drawing room. All signs of the afternoon's disaster had been removed, but a large pale square on the wallpaper showed where the broken cabinet had once stood.

  Dr. Cary being set against cards and all forms of gambling, Mrs. Cary proposed alternative entertainment. At her insistence, each of them was required to perform a speech from Shakespeare.

  Juliet, rather than choosing anything from her namesake, did Portia's "The quality of mercy is not strained" from the courtroom scene of The Merchant of Venice. The Vicar regaled them with Marc Antony's "Friends! Romans! Countrymen! Lend me your ears!" Cynthia, after much indecision, rather surprisingly settled on Cleopatra's lament. "No more but e'en a woman, and commanded/ By such poor passion as the maid that milks/ And does the meanest chares." It went on and on. Swale could make neither head nor tails of it, but he noticed Juliet wiping a tear from her eye as Cynthia's soft voice faded into the air.

  Horatio stood up and smiled fondly at Juliet. "What shall I do, my dear cousin? Macbeth? Hamlet? Othello?"

  "Hamlet,' 'she said promptly, clapping her hands together like an ecstatic child. Swale did not much like the way her gray eyes glowed as she looked at her handsome cousin. She seemed to have forgotten entirely how the rude fellow had insulted her cooking!

  Horatio honored her choice with "0, that this too too solid flesh would melt/ Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew."

  Swale was sitting on the sofa next to Cynthia with Sailor in his lap. "No such bloody luck," he muttered under his breath, but he added his applause when the long soliloquy at last was laid to rest. "You might have had a career treading the boards, Captain," he said, stifling a yawn.

  "Thank you, my lord," Horatio said coldly.

  "So that's Hamlet, is it? The man's mother marries his father's brother-have I got it right?" asked Swale. "Fairly beastly, what? I must say, I can't approve. English people ought to behave better, set an example for the world, even in our plays."

  The Family Cary did not know what to say.

  "Ancient Rome, yes, obviously. And the Greek chap who married his own Mamma-Octopus or Edifice or what is it?"

  "Oedipus," Horatio said contemptuously.

  "Well, foreigners, after all. But one expects better from the English race, by God."

  "They're not English, you ridiculous man," said Juliet severely. "They're Danes."

  "They're what?"

  "Danes. The play is set in Denmark." Juliet shook her head, almost unable to credit the extent of his ignorance. "For heaven's sake, it's called Hamlet, Prince of Denmark."

  "Which explains his rather poor grasp of the English language," said Swale. "Such an obvious Dane, Hamlet. That part about the old shoes following the dead fellow's body around the place, all teary-eyed-"

  Juliet angrily picked up the book. "A little month or ere those shoes were old," she read, "With which she followed my poor father's body/ Like Niobe, all tears-"

  "Is that good English?" Swale wanted to know. "I ask you, even in Denmark, are those lines to be considered the King's English? Hm-m-m, Miss Wayborn? I think not."

  Juliet slammed the book shut. "And what will you do for us, my lord?" she inquired, tilting her head to one side. "Sir John Falstaff, perhaps?"

  Swale regarded her blankly. "Sorry?" he said. "Thought it was Shakespeare night."

  "Don't you know any Shakespeare at all?" cried Juliet, appalled.

  "Shakespeare, my dear infant," he informed her while scratching Sailor's tummy, "is the name of the horse that won the Lincolnshire in '03."

  His lordship returned to his room at the Tudor Rose in high dudgeon. "If that is the sort of man she likes!" he fumed as he tore off his neckcloth. "Poetry, Bowditch, and a lip covered in fungus! He is a great eater of poulet roti au cresson and salmon en croute and God knows what! No rabbit pie for him, Bowditch! Not the great Captain Cary."

  Bowditch was already in bed, reading by the light of his candle, and where another valet might have felt the need to get up and attend his master, Bowditch merely turned the page.

  "They call him Phoebus in town, you know. One of those ruddy Parthenon gods, I expect."

  "The god of the sun, my lord," Bowditch informed him. "Sometimes known as Apollo."

  Swale sat on the edge of his bed and availed himself of the bootjack. "I expect they call the Wayborn after one of those bally Parthenon goddesses too."

  Bowditch closed his book with a firm clap and looked sharply at his master. "Miss Wayborn, my lord? Did your lordship find her to be goddess-like?"

  Swale crossed the room and set his boots outside the door to be polished. "Oh, not one of the really juicy goddesses, not Venus or anything like that. Take your mind out of the stews, Bowditch. One of those queenly, stiff-necked, fully clothed goddesses, if you see what I mean. Prone to flinging lightning bolts at the heads of defenseless mortals. You know the type. Supply the name."

  "I believe that Juno was the queen of the gods, my lord. Something of a jealous shrew, or so I understand. Always trying to kill Hercules."

  "No, no," Swale said impatiently. "Nothing Junoesque about the Wayborn. Quite a slim girl, Bowditch-I daresay I could span her waist with my two hands. I can't think how she managed those chestnuts. What's the name of the one that jumped out of Jove's head with her spear at the ready?"

  "Minerva, my lord."

  "That's the one. Goddess of war? Chaos? Doom?"

  "Wisdom, my lord, though Minerva did side with the Greeks in the Trojan War. She was the patroness of Ulysses."

  "The Trojans won that one, didn't they?"

  "No, my lord. Troy fell."

  "Did he? Stubbed his toe? Serves him right." Swale yawned. "I'm going to bed now, Bowditch, where I shall sleep like an infant. Why? Because I deserve a rest after the evening I have had. Tomorrow, we return to London."

  "London, my lord?"

  "Yes, Bowditch, London. Hertfordshire is a foul wasteland. Nothing but trees, sunshine, and grass. There's nothing to amuse us here."

  "But surely, my lord, your revenge upon Miss Wayborn is incomplete-"

  Swale sniffed. "I have decided it is not the behavior of a gentleman to trifle with a lady's affections. She don't deserve to have tender, womanly feelings awakened in her by me. I'm for London, Bowditch. I'd like an early start, so mind you don't drag your feet! "

  "No, my lord," said Bowditch, blowing out his candle.

  Some time later, while it was still dark, Swale awoke with a start from a dream he was having in which a long, slender snake had gotten inside the shimmering red dress of a tall, dark-haired lady, causing her great distress, and in which he was pleasantly engaged in helping her to locate it. The search had reached a most interesting point when suddenly, his eyes popped open. It took him a moment to realize what was amiss. The loud, regular snoring of his valet had ceased, desisted, and stopped altogether.

  "Bowditch?" he croaked softly. There was no answer. It briefly occurred to Swale that he ought to investigate. Then he rolled over and went back to sleep.

  The next thing he knew, his
excellent landlord was standing over him. The room was filled with light. The air smelled beautifully of bacon, sausages, and steak and kidney pie.

  "My lord?"

  Swale eyed the man blearily. "What is the time, landlord?" he asked gruffly.

  "Half-past ten," came the incredible answer.

  "Damnation!" cried Swale, throwing back the covers. "I wanted an early start, landlord. Did my man not tell you?"

  "No, my lord. I haven't seen Mr. Bowditch this morning."

  "Tea, landlord," Swale said decisively. "And something to revitalize the tissues," he added, patting his growling belly. "Another rabbit pie, perhaps?"

  "Yes, my lord," said Mr. Sprigge.

  Swale rubbed his face vigorously, and his whiskers rasped against his knuckles. "And I don't suppose you could shave me, landlord?"

  "Certainly, my lord," Mr. Sprigge said readily enough, but Swale could not help noticing he seemed rooted to the spot.

  "What is it, man? Bowditch didn't run off with the pewter, did he?"

  "No, my lord. There is ... a lady ... waiting to see your lordship."

  "A lady?" Swale chuckled. "Well, perhaps when I am stronger, Mr. Sprigge. Right now, all I want is my breakfast. And lots of it."

  "It is Miss Wayborn, my lord," said Mr. Sprigge a little coldly. "She's been waiting for your lordship for three quarters of an hour already. She asked me to wake you, my lord. She says it is important that she speak to your lordship."

  "Miss Wayborn?" He was so startled he stopped midway through a yawn. Certain images from the previous night's dream entered his head, causing him some embarrassment, which he covered with a show of annoyance. "What the devil does she want?"

  "The young lady did not confide in me, my lord."

  "I wish she'd told you to wake me up two hours ago," he grumbled, beginning to shove on a few clothes that happened to be lying around. "I might be in London by this time. Where is she?"

  "The parlor, my lord."

  Swale nodded. "Very well, Sprigge. I will join her anon, as Shakespeare said. For the nonce, whatever you do, don't let her near my breakfast. She has rather a nasty habit of setting a man's food on fire."

  He found his boots outside the door, put them on, and made his way to the private parlor. Miss Wayborn was standing at the window looking down onto the High Street. She was very neatly dressed in a dark blue redingote that reminded him, as it was meant to, of a Naval officer's coat. In her gloved hands, she held a riding crop.

  'Well, harpy?" he greeted her with his usual lack of courtesy. "What do you want?"

  She turned, frowning, but for a moment, she was struck speechless by his appearance. His shirt was badly wrinkled, and it lay open at the neck. His coat was unbuttoned. He wore breeches and boots. He was unshaven, and his red hair was standing on end.

  "Good God, man!" she said, appalled. "Your face looks like an anthill. Did you sleep in your clothes?"

  "No, my dear young lady, I slept in my bed. What did you sleep in?"

  "That, Ginger," she spat, her hands tightening on the crop, is none of your business."

  "Quite! "

  Juliet resumed an air of queenly dignity. "I have come to speak to you on a matter of some importance."

  "It may very well be important to the harpy population," he said, "but what chiefly matters to me is breakfast. Ali! Here is Mistress Sprigge."

  The landlord's wife bumped into the room carrying a jug. She was closely followed by a sturdy young man carrying a heavy tray.

  Swale sat down at the table and rubbed his hands together as various dishes were set before him. As he began to eat, Mrs. Sprigge looked askance at the young lady.

  "Thank you, Mrs. Sprigge."

  "Oh, now, Miss Julie-"

  "That will be all ," Juliet said firmly, and Mrs. Sprigge reluctantly withdrew.

  Swale, his mouth full of heavenly bacon, chuckled. "You've shocked her," he observed. "You should be more careful, you wicked doxy. What if I were to tell the Sprigges I had offered you carte blanche and you had accepted? Who would be in a spot then, eh, my girl?"

  He expected a pale face and a gasp of horror, but she baffled him with a puzzled look. "What is carte blanche?" she asked. "White card, I know, but what does that signify?"

  He felt his own cheeks grow hot.

  "Never mind! " she said hastily. "Whatever it is, the Sprigges have known me since I was a baby. They would take my part against you, Ginger, rest assured."

  He grunted and reached for the jug Mrs. Sprigge had left. It turned out to be buttermilk. Not as refreshing as ale, of course, but it helped the sausages go down. "A gentleman offers a courtesan carte blanche when he wishes to become her only client," he told her. "Oh! "

  He leaned back and looked at her. Righteous indignation, affronted prudery ... these would have amused him. But in her expression, he saw only disgust. "If you don't want to be offered carte blanche, my dear," he told her roughly, "you might refrain from requesting private meetings with strange gentlemen at your local inn. Appearances and all that."

  "Do you keep a manservant called Bowditch?" she asked abruptly.

  He polished off a few slices of toast while considering the matter. "Is there some reason I shouldn't keep a manservant called Bowditch?"

  "Well, if you have a man called Bowditch, which I think you do, I have two very good reasons why you should turn him off immediately. First of all, you look like you just woke up."

  "I did just wake up," he informed her.

  "You always look like you just woke up!" she retorted.

  "And the second reason?" he said. "The first carries no weight with me, you understand."

  "Your Bowditch has been imposing on my Fifi!"

  He nearly choked on his buttermilk. "Your Fifi?"

  "My maid," she explained with dignity. `Josephine."

  He looked her up and down. She did not appear in the least to have just woken up. Parthenon goddesses never do. "The maid that curls your hair over your ears?" he inquired. "Why do you let her do that? I don't think your hair wants to be curled over your ears."

  "Hairdressing advice from the Viking berserker," she scoffed. "Never mind my hair, you insufferable oaf! What are you going to do about this Bowditch? You may as well know that Fi-that Josephine is an orphan. Her parents were emigres who fled the Terror in France and arrived here with nothing. I am responsible for her."

  "A touching story," he said, trying unsuccessfully to disguise a belch as a hiccough.

  "Last night, I found her in tears!"

  "Your Fifi?"

  "You may be accustomed," she said icily, "to laughing at the tears of a friendless young girl, but I am not!"

  °I beg your pardon," he said, ringing the bell, "but surely you do not expect me to console your Fifi?"

  "I wish you would tell your Bowditch to stay away from my Fifi!" she snapped. "For how can I doubt his character when he is the servant of such a master! "

  He stood up and threw down his napkin. "What did you say?"

  She did not scruple to repeat the insulting words. "Perhaps you do not care that your servant is imposing upon a defenseless female," she went on. "Perhaps you are so licentious yourself that your servants see no need to curtail their own behavior!"

  His green eyes narrowed. "Licentious! So I'm licentious now, am I? No serving wench is safe from me?"

  Too proud to withdraw, she stoutly declared, "If I were a servant girl, I wouldn't trust you as far as I could throw you."

  He crossed the room to her in two long strides. "By God, if you were a man-!"

  If she had been a man, he would have punched her in the nose. But she was not a man, so he grabbed her by the elbows, lifted her bodily from the floor, and kissed her, causing her to drop her riding crop. When he was finished, he let her go so quickly, she nearly fell as well.

  "Call me licentious," he said, a little short of breath. "I'll teach you licentious!"

  For a moment, she was too surprised to say anything. The sound of the boo
ts clearing his throat in the doorway brought her to her senses.

  'What is it, Jackey?" she said crisply, then wiped her mouth hard with the back of her hand.

  The boy's eyes were open to their fullest extent, and judging from his cheeky grin, he had witnessed the entire disgraceful incident. "Begging milord's pardon, Miss, but milord's man asked me to give this note to his lordship when his lordship woke up."

  He held up a bit of folded paper and added apologetically, "I was in the cellar filling the lamps, milord, or I'd have brought it sooner."

  "Never mind, Jackey," said Swale, giving the lad a breezy smile as he unfolded the letter. "I was quite agreeably occupied, as you saw. Clear the table, will you; there's a good lad. And bring Miss Wayborn some hot tea. She has had a bit of a shock. I daresay she has never been kissed before, which explains both the ineptitude of her response and her present confusion."

  Juliet was not to be goaded so easily. "What does Bowditch have to say for himself?"

  "Ha!" said Swale, waving the page under her nose. "I knew it! It is not my Bowditch that has imposed upon your Fifi. Rather, it is your Fifi that has imposed upon my Bowditch. The frisky minx has prevailed upon him to take her away from this provincial backwater. It would appear that your Fifi regards you as a sort of a jailer, Miss Wayborn."

  "What nonsense,"Juliet scoffed. "He has abducted her. I tell you, I found her crying!"

  "Quite," he told her happily. "It says here she meant to employ some ruse to get you out of the way. In sending you here to confront me about Bowditch's supposed crimes against her, I'd say she has succeeded. You've been outmaneuvered by your own Fifi, Miss Wayborn."

  "My maid would never run away from me," said Juliet. "Not willingly! Your vile Bowditch must have exercised some terrible influence over her, some coercion . . . "

  "Begging your pardon, Miss Julie," said the ever present Jackey. "But I happened to see his lordship's man yesterday-"