Marchington Scandal

by Jane Ashford

  The Daltrys had been engaged to accompany Elinor to the opera that evening, but Katharine cried off, and when Elinor objected, told her that it was just as well for them all to avoid the public eye. “It will deprive the gossips of the opportunity of staring at us,” she finished. “And we do go to the Laytons’ tomorrow, Elinor.”

  Elinor was forced to be satisfied with this, but she spent a great part of the evening at the Daltrys’ bemoaning her fate and wondering what Tom was doing. So despairing was her conversation, in fact, that she quite tried Katharine’s patience. Katharine had great sympathy for her cousin’s plight, but she could not bear whining. She sent Elinor home early and declared that she was going to bed.

  Mary agreed. “It has been a trying day. I will go up, too.” She hesitated, then added, “Did the newspaper…that is…”

  Katharine laughed. “Yes, they took it gladly. Indeed, John said that they were positively gleeful when they realized what it was.”

  “Oh. You sent John, then?”

  “Yes, and after I scolded Elinor for employing servants on private errands. But John was with Father for years and years, you know. He would never betray me.”

  “No, dear.” Mary seemed to have other concerns. “I only hope you are not very sorry tomorrow and wishing you had not written it.”

  “I shan’t be. Whatever happens, Mary, I have done something right. I shall be glad of that.”

  Mary nodded feebly, looking unconvinced. “I hope so.”

  Katharine laughed again. “Come, forget about it and let us go to bed. A good night’s rest will make everything look brighter.” She took her cousin’s arm, and they walked upstairs together.

  Eight

  Katharine had hardly reached her studio the following morning when she was once again interrupted. Without so much as a knock, Eliza Burnham burst into the room, the latest edition of the Morning Post clutched in her neatly gloved hand.

  “No, really,” said Katharine, turning from her critical examination of the painting she had started the previous day, “this is too much. Am I never to be left in peace?”

  “Katharine,” said Lady Burnham commandingly, “I must talk to you.”

  With a sigh, Katharine began to remove her apron. She had the feeling that she would not do any painting today. “Shall we go downstairs?”

  “I wanted to come yesterday, but something kept interfering. And then I thought to see you at the opera last night, and you did not come. I am extremely disturbed, Katharine!”

  “I can see that you are,” replied the other more kindly. “Come downstairs. Mary is there, and I am sure she will agree with everything you say.” She looked at her visitor sideways from under her lashes.

  “You do know about this, don’t you?” cried Lady Burnham. “I tried to tell myself that it was some sort of joke, but when I read this this morning…” She tapped the newspaper.

  “I refuse to speak until we go down,” answered Katharine. “Come.”

  They found Mary Daltry in the drawing room, holding her own copy of the Morning Post. She was reading with a worried expression, and as they entered, she made a small distressed sound.

  “Here is Eliza, Mary,” said Katharine as they walked in. “I brought her straight to you so that you can both ring a peal over me at once.” Her eyes twinkled.

  Mary Daltry and Lady Burnham exchanged a glance. “Let me understand, Katharine,” said the latter. “Did you have something to do with the article printed this morning?”

  “Yes, Eliza,” replied the girl meekly, her amber eyes still dancing.

  Their guest sank onto the sofa beside Mary. “Oh, lud!”

  Katharine burst out laughing. The two older ladies eyed her helplessly. After a moment, she said, “But did you see Winstead’s article, Eliza?”

  “Yes. It was grossly impertinent, of course. I meant to come and see you about it.”

  “So you heard it was about me?”

  “Oh, yes. Someone who was there mentioned it, and the gossips made sure everyone heard. But, Katharine—”

  “Well, I’m glad I wrote a reply, then.”

  Lady Burnham gaped at her. “You…you wrote…?”

  Katharine nodded, suppressing a smile, and Mary Daltry made another small sound.

  “Katharine, how could you?”

  “Come, come, it’s not so bad as that. It’s nothing but a newspaper piece, and no one else will know I did it.”

  “But everyone will be talking. And Winstead…I don’t know him, of course, but I understand that he is a very spiteful creature. What will he do?”

  “If he has any common sense, he will abandon the subject.” Katharine’s jaw hardened. “In any case, Eliza, I was obliged to do this; it was only right.”

  “Obliged?”

  Katharine explained the motives behind her action. “We cannot ignore injustice simply because it does not hurt us,” she finished.

  “No, dear,” murmured Lady Burnham weakly. She picked up the paper. “But, Katharine, to say, ‘the learned gentleman who speaks so kindly of the ladies’ proper sphere overlooks the fact that said ladies were never consulted when the label “proper” was put upon it,’ or further down here, ‘I daresay that a hundred women who have limited themselves to sketching and watercolor might yet paint better than a mere critic.’ Really, Katharine!”

  “Yes,” put in Mary. “It sounds so…so combative, Katharine.” She looked down at the paper in her lap. “‘I would back those lady watercolorists against any dozen of the so-called painters who frequent the studios of London. Taken generally, they have more taste, more range, and in many cases, better training.’ Oh, Katharine, everyone will be so angry with you.”

  But Katharine was looking a bit angry herself. “Will they? Well, they must be, then, for I have said nothing less than I think, and if that makes people angry…” She shrugged.

  “It is not the sentiments,” said Eliza Burnham. “They are quite…quite admirable, I suppose. But, oh, Katharine, this will raise such a furor. It will be a nine days’ wonder, everyone talking of it, and the newspapers! It just isn’t…well, it isn’t done.”

  Katharine turned away from them impatiently and walked over to the window. As she looked down, she laughed shortly. “Another voice for your cause is arriving, Eliza.”

  In the next moment, Tony Tillston was hurrying into the drawing room. He checked briefly at the sight of Lady Burnham, but when Katharine greeted him by saying, “Come to join in the scolding, Tony?” he pulled his own copy of the Morning Post from his pocket.

  “Katharine, did you—?” he began.

  “Yes, yes,” she replied impatiently.

  Tony looked from one face to the other. “Well, I don’t say you should have done it. But it’s the sharpest set-down Winstead has had in his life, I daresay.” He grinned. Katharine met his eyes with a gleam in her own.

  “Tony, you mustn’t encourage her,” exclaimed Lady Burnham. “Oh, where will this end?”

  “Tony, help me convince them that it is not a catastrophe,” replied Katharine.

  “Well, it isn’t,” agreed Tony. “There will be a good deal of talk, of course, but it will go off in a few days.”

  “And no one will have the least notion that I wrote that piece, will they?”

  “Shouldn’t think so.” Oddly, Tony looked almost embarrassed. “The thing is, Katharine…ah…some of the fellows seem to think that I did.”

  Katharine laughed. “No, do they? How famous for you, Tony! You will get a reputation as a literary man.”

  He grimaced. “Well, I wanted to ask you about that. I thought, you know, of telling them that I hired some writer fellow to do it.”

  “Oh, no,” said Katharine immediately.

  “Quite right,” added Eliza unexpectedly. “It is by far the best thing to claim no knowledge at all. Say you haven’t any idea who wrote it, Tony.”

  Katharine nodded, and Tony’s face fell. “But no one will believe me. Dash it, that’s just the sort of th
ing I would say if I had written it.”

  “Precisely,” answered Katharine, grinning in her turn.

  Tony groaned and sat down.

  “So it is settled, then,” continued the girl. “Now, if you will excuse me…”

  “Oh, no,” responded Eliza. “I have a great deal more to say to you.”

  “We have said enough, dear Eliza. I am not the least sorry for what I did, and you will not make me so. But I have no intention of doing anything more, so you may rest easy. And now I am going upstairs, and I will not be interrupted.” She turned and walked out of the room.

  Lady Burnham sighed. “She is going to fall into a real scrape someday.”

  Mary Daltry sighed also.

  “I’m not so sure,” responded Tony. “She seems to know what she’s doing. But I say, Katharine has certainly changed since she went away to India, hasn’t she?”

  The two ladies sighed again.

  As they had promised Elinor, the Daltrys accompanied her to an evening party that night. Elinor came to them for dinner beforehand, and whenever there was any opportunity for private conversation, it was all of Elinor’s plight and what could be done about it.

  “Tom is almost never home now,” she told them after the soup had been served. “I hardly see him, and when I do, he brushes me off as if he were thinking of something more important.” She shook her head sadly.

  Katharine, looking at her younger cousin, thought she seemed tired and subdued, as if the melancholy experience she was going through had altered her, physically. She felt a pang of compassion. She had been almost grateful for Elinor’s problem this evening, since it superseded all talk of the Morning Post article. Elinor was so taken up with her own concerns that she had heard nothing about the “painting controversy.” But now Katharine reaffirmed to herself her determination to help her young cousin. If only she could think of some solution as easy and clear as her response to Winstead. But this seemed a much more knotty issue; involving not some abstract “justice,” but her own cousin and her husband. She wanted to say something encouraging to Elinor, but she couldn’t think of anything that sounded sincere.

  The party that evening included dancing—an impromptu “hop,” their hostess called it when she greeted them, not a formal ball. As they walked together into the crowded room, Elinor wistfully remarked, “I thought I would have such fun going to ton parties.”

  Katharine looked down at her with concern. Despite her fashionable sprig-muslin gown and cropped hair, Elinor was rather like a schoolgirl deprived of a long-anticipated treat. Katharine searched the room, hoping someone would ask her cousin to dance, but a set was in progress, and everyone else was chatting. Moreover, it was obvious that several people, having seen Katharine herself enter, were coming to speak to her. And Katharine had a good idea what they wished to talk about. Thus, she signaled Mary to take Elinor to sit down, and turned to face Lady Jersey and another lady, who bore down on her at that moment.

  “My dear,” said Lady Jersey, “I was just telling Jane—you know Jane Foster, of course—I was just telling her about your fascinating experience at Lawrence’s studio. How I wish I had been there! And these articles! It is too amusing.”

  “Isn’t it?” agreed Katharine.

  “You do think so, then? I didn’t know, of course, whether you might be offended.”

  “Offended?” Katharine was looking particularly splendid tonight. She had finally put off her half-mourning and was wearing a gown of amber silk that exactly matched her eyes, with a glowing set of topazes that had belonged to her maternal grandmother. She now gazed innocently at Lady Jersey.

  “Well, being talked of in the newspapers, you know. So…ah…unusual.”

  “The newspapers?” Katharine was all amazement. “But what have the newspapers to do with me?”

  Lady Jersey frowned. “Well, that article described what happened…”

  “Oh, I see. I didn’t precisely understand you before. I thought you were talking of my visit to Sir Thomas’s studio, which I enjoyed immensely. It was a privilege to meet him. But these articles you speak of…” Katharine shrugged.

  “But the first told the story of your visit.”

  “Oh, no,” corrected Katharine kindly. “It was mentioned, of course, but the writer goes on to talk of completely unconnected things. It really had nothing to do with me.”

  Lady Jersey seemed confused by this distinction, and it took her a moment to recover. But then she leaned forward a little and asked, “But tell me, dear, did you really do the paintings, or was it a joke?”

  A spark of anger showed in Katharine’s eyes, but she kept her face impassive. “My daubs? Oh, of course I did them.”

  “Ah.” Seeming satisfied with this piece of information, Lady Jersey moved back to let another guest approach. And Katharine was soon surrounded by a group of eager questioners, whose inquiries she parried expertly.

  The dancing had ended, and a new set was forming when Tony Tillston joined them. “Come and dance,” he said determinedly to Katharine. “You promised this set to me.”

  “Of course. Excuse me.” Katharine nodded to the others and walked down the room on Tony’s arm. “Thank you,” she added as they fell in with the dancers.

  “Not at all. I thought you looked as if you had had enough.”

  “It is amazing how avid people are for something to talk about. Haven’t they any interests of their own?”

  “No,” he responded promptly.

  Katharine laughed. “Well, I was glad to escape.” They began to dance. She looked around for Elinor, who was still sitting beside Mary among the chaperones. “Oh, dear.”

  Following her gaze, Tony shook his head. “I’ll ask your cousin for the next set.”

  “Would you, Tony? Oh, that would be splendid.”

  “Happy to; she’s a nice little thing.” He hesitated, then added awkwardly, “Like to help there, but the thing is, I’m frightened to death of the Countess Standen.”

  Katharine met his eyes with surprised gratitude. “How kind! But there is not the least need for you to do anything.” She looked around the room again. “Are they here?”

  “In the corner by the windows.”

  She looked and saw the countess, as usual leaning languidly back on a sofa, surrounded by her accustomed court. Tom Marchington hovered in the background, and to Katharine’s astonishment, Lord Oliver Stonenden sat beside the countess, bent over her attentively. An exclamation of surprise escaped her.

  “What is it?” asked Tony.

  “Nothing. I was merely surprised to see Lord Stonenden among the countess’s entourage.”

  “That is curious, isn’t it? He’s stayed beside her quite half an hour, a thing he never does. And I didn’t think he liked Elise Standen above half.”

  “Perhaps he has just noticed her…ah, attractions.”

  “Can’t have just noticed them,” replied Tony practically. “And she’s not really his style, either. Unaccountable thing.”

  “Well, it is not of the least consequence,” snapped Katharine.

  Tony looked at her with raised eyebrows. “No.”

  Unable to account for her annoyance, the girl tossed her head. “Let us talk of something interesting. Have you heard what Winstead thought of the reply to his article?”

  “Have I not? They say he is positively livid. He will do something about it, you know.”

  “Let him.”

  “Yes, well, it is all very fine to say that, but Winstead is a nasty customer. There’s no telling what he may try.”

  “We can only wait and see,” replied Katharine, dismissing the subject. Her eyes had drifted involuntarily back to the corner where Lord Stonenden was talking so intimately with Countess Standen. If this was his taste, well…

  Tony asked Elinor for the next set, and Katharine danced with another acquaintance. As she moved across the floor, she saw Lord Stonenden leave the sofa and bid his hostess good-bye. Tom took his place, but after a few minutes the
countess waved him away and beckoned to another young man who had been hovering nearby. Tom, looking thunderous, stalked off just as the music was ending. And when Elinor and Katharine rejoined Mary Daltry, he came up to them and stood before their chairs, putting his hands beneath his coattails and rocking back and forth on his heels. Elinor looked torn between gratification and doubt.

  No one seemed to know what to say. Katharine was far too annoyed—over Tom’s cavalier attitude, she told herself—to make conversation. Elinor seemed afraid to speak, and Tom himself appeared to be brooding. Finally, Mary Daltry ventured, “It is growing quite warm in here, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” replied Elinor eagerly, “quite warm.”

  There was another pause.

  Abruptly Tom said, “Who was that you were dancing with, Elinor?”

  His wife stared up at him, then said, “Tony Tillston. He is a friend of Katharine’s.”

  “These town beaus,” snorted Tom, “think they’re so wonderful. And women are just silly enough to believe them.”

  Elinor looked amazed, but Katharine, watching Tom’s surly expression, was suddenly struck by a stunning idea. She was fairly certain that his remark had originated in pique over the countess’s dismissal, but that feeling might, perhaps, be played upon. Katharine’s eyes lit as she developed her plan in her mind. Yes, indeed—perhaps she had at last hit upon a way to help her Cousin Elinor solve her distressing problem.

  Nine

  Katharine found no chance to speak privately with Tony during the remainder of that evening, so the following afternoon she sent him a note asking him to call. He arrived as she and Mary were having tea. “What’s happened?” he asked as she poured him a cup. “Winstead not up to any new mischief, I hope.”

  “No,” replied Katharine. “Would you like some bread and butter?”

  Tony eyed her. “No.”

  “A slice of this cake, perhaps. Cook will send us cake, even though she knows that neither Mary nor I eat it in the afternoon.”

  He shook his head. “What are you plotting, Katharine?”

  Katharine looked surprised.