Ask Me No Questions

by Patricia Veryan

  "Mr. Falcon asked me to—" began Morris in desperation.

  He had come upon the secret formula. My lady's tirade ceased, and she whipped around, a sugary smile affixed to her sharp features, and her eyes scanning the park eagerly. "Do you refer to my dear friend August Falcon? Where is he?"

  "He was obliged to leave, but desired that I do whatever I might to assist you and this lady. I—er, think his father is acquainted with hers."

  "Such a kind creature," purred Lady Buttershaw, and with an arch giggle that appalled Morris, enquired, "And did August charge you with a message for me?"

  "Only that I do what I might to mend matters between you and Mrs.— Oh, egad! My apologies, ma'am, but—I've forgot…" He looked hopefully at the widow.

  "I am Mrs. Thomas Allington," said Ruth, her voice trembling a little. Lady Buttershaw's basilisk gaze darted to her and she added defiantly, "Of Lingways, in Essex."

  My lady stared at her in silence, then said in a markedly less strident tone, "You may present Mrs. Allington, Lieutenant."

  Breathing an inward sigh of relief, Morris said, "Lady Clara Buttershaw—Mrs. Thomas Allington."

  Ruth also had detected a thaw. The encounter had left her already worn nerves even more strained, and the thought that this horrid woman might indeed bring charges against them was terrifying. She said, "I am indeed sorry if your gown was muddied, my lady, and—"

  "I think you are not blind, and can see that it is. And my reticule is quite ruined," grumbled Lady Clara, flourishing that article.

  There did indeed appear to be a tear beside the handle. "My companion is an excellent needlewoman, ma'am," said Ruth, spurred by a sight of the footman returning, with a burly man in uniform beside him. "An you permit that I have it repaired, 'twould be my pleasure to return it to you."

  "Handsomely said," remarked Morris, beaming. "All's well that—"

  Lady Clara's fan rapped upon his arm. "Be off with you, Lieutenant! And tell that rascal August Falcon that I expect him to call upon me within the week. Run along, now. We ladies can handle these little fusses very well without the aid of clumsy gentlemen, can we not, my dear?"

  'My dear ...?' thought Ruth, dazed.

  'Alleluia!' thought Morris, and bowed himself away.

  The green saloon was very like its mistress, Ruth decided. Large, intimidating, and rather too busy. She had come to the luxurious neighbourhood lying east of Hyde Park with considerable reluctance, but had not dared send Grace to return the repaired reticule, guessing that Lady Buttershaw would be offended. My lady moved in the very circles in which an impecunious widow might be obliged to seek employment, and it would be the height of folly to further antagonize so powerful a member of the ton. The size and magnificence of the mansion had deepened her unease, however, and she'd cherished the hope that her ladyship would be from home this morning, so that she might leave the reticule and a note of apology, and make her escape. Her heart had sunk when the butler, a majestic individual, had looked at her calling card and advised that she was expected. He had conducted her across a richly appointed entrance hall, up a staircase overshadowed by portraits of contemptuous and (presumably) ancestral Buttershaws, and into this ornate chamber.

  It was very quiet, and a rather musty odour hung upon the air. Looking about curiously, Ruth thought that Lady Buttershaw and her husband must have a deep interest in things past, for everywhere were antique objects, many with framed informational texts beside them. A gloomy tapestry hung upon one wall. She was unable to determine what it represented and, as the minutes slid silently past, curiosity got the better of discretion, and she crept over to peer at it. The faded forms remained indeterminate, and she had decided it was some kind of coronation ceremony until she read the accompanying text and discovered it to be "The Execution of the Martyr King." She suppressed a giggle, whispered her apologies to the shadowy Charles Stuart, and moved to the next curiosity. This was a glass case containing objects ranging from a lock of hair purporting to have been taken from the severed head of Guy Fawkes, to a faded and tiny slipper worn by the mighty Queen Elizabeth. An impressively framed document caught her attention, and she found it to be a letter from King Charles I to a Colonel Montmorency Yerville. The spidery handwriting was difficult to decipher, but it was evidently a commendation for valour and there was no doubt of the signature, and the date, "This fifteenth daye of December, in the Year of Grace 1647."

  Starting back to her chair, the widow hoped her ladyship would come soon. There was very little time left in which to complete the closure of the London house, and the sooner she reached Lingways and disposed of whichever furnishings might fetch a decent price, the— Sensing that she was no longer alone, she glanced up.

  A slight lady watched her from the open doorway. Of early middle age, she wore unrelieved white, the bodice of her gown buttoned high to the throat, and the long sleeves having falls of lace at the wrists. Her wig was neat but not of the latest style, and her countenance, although pleasant, was fine-boned and pale, adding to an impression of fragility. Coming swiftly into the room, she said in a soft rather breathless voice, "I think you are Mrs. Thomas Allington. Allow me to introduce myself; I am Lady Julia Yerville."

  Ruth curtsied respectfully, but before she could respond, Lady Julia's timid glance had darted to the open door and she was saying in the same hurried fashion, "Do sit down, my dear. No not there. On the sofa, beside me. I should not be here, but I did so very much want to speak with you before…" She gave a vague gesture and left the sentence unfinished.

  Obediently, Ruth sat beside her and was at once enveloped in a faint air of lavender.

  "I know why you are come," Lady Julia went on. "My sister, Lady Clara, has told me of your—er, meeting in the park." Another nervous glance to the door, then a rush of half-whispered words. "I was distressed to hear that a young widow—especially one in your circumstances— Does it surprise you that I know your sad tale? I do. Long and long ago, you see, I knew your papa." Her eyes, which were a very light blue, were large and luminous, and sorrow came into them as she added with a sigh, "Poor Greville. So handsome and charming, yet with so great a talent. I have often thought he might be delighting us with his paintings to this day, had it not been for Jonathan."

  Ruth stiffened. "My brother was innocent, ma'am! No matter what his men said, he was a splendid sailor and would never have left the bridge while his vessel was at such risk! And as for being intoxi—"

  "I do not doubt you for an instant, dear Mrs. Arlington." Lady Julia leaned forward to take her hand. "I met Jonathan once, after he grew up. Such a fine fellow. As handsome as his dear papa, almost. I never believed he was addicted to strong spirits. Never! But—alas, I do think Greville was deeply grieved when he was accused. No?"

  Ruth looked steadily at the small fingers closed over her own, the all too familiar pang striking hard as it always did when she thought of that dreadful time. Even now, two years after that ghastly morning when first the news of her brother's death had come, she could almost see the newspapers. "East Indiaman sinks off Cornwall with heavy loss of life!… Captain of doomed ship accused of gross negligence!… Renowned artist's sea-captain son drunk in cabin as his ship runs onto rocks!"

  She muttered, "Papa was heart-broken. But he never believed it of Johnny."

  "Of course. For that was not Greville Armitage's way. I admired him even more for his staunch efforts to clear Jonathan's name. Although—it broke him, alas, both physically and financially. And now you are to lose even the country estate, I hear. My poor, poor child! It must be five years since your husband went to his reward, but I had thought him very well to pass. Did he make no provision for you?"

  Torn between pride and the need to unburden herself, Ruth hesitated. Since poor Johnny's death and subsequent disgrace so many of their erstwhile friends had ceased to acknowledge them, and when, a scant year later, Papa had followed the son he adored to the grave, she had felt so lost. So alone and in need of a friend. Grace had stood by t
hem, God bless her. But—

  She glanced up. The gentle eyes watched her anxiously.

  A sympathetic smile curved the pale lips, and Ruth's defenses crumbled.

  "Mr. Allington left me well provided for, my lady. But— but Papa was never very— That is to say, he was of an artistic temperament and had no head for business."

  "So when he over-extended himself in striving to defend your late brother's good name you rallied to help him. As any dutiful daughter would do. I should have guessed it. But—forgive me, surely your father's paintings must be of extreme value?"

  "Yes. And we lived off them this past year, my lady. Until the robbery." Ruth sighed helplessly. "So many of his best works were taken. I had sold a few, mostly to pay debts. But—now…" Tears stung her eyes, and suddenly the feeling of helplessness was crushing.

  Soft arms were around her. A scented kiss was pressed on her cheek. "There, there, my dear. We must find a way. There is always a way, you know."

  Drying her eyes, Ruth said threadily, "Oh, that was… very bad. I do beg your p-pardon, but you are so very kind. Whatever must you think of me?"

  "Why, that you are extreme brave and resourceful, to have survived so much tragedy. Thomas Allington was a good many years your senior, of course, but devoted to you. We all knew it. And then, to lose your brother under such circumstances! And within a year, your poor papa! My dear, you cannot know how I admire you. I myself am such a frightful coward and weakling."

  Struggling to control her emotions, Ruth looked into the pale face, and said, "I cannot believe th-that, my lady."

  "Oh, but it is perfectly true." Lady Yerville glanced to the door, leaned closer, and whispered confidingly, "I wish I had just a teensy particle of your courage. But I am very silly, and am easily frightened. To hear the gentlemen discussing the Uprising… The least hint of violence…" Her voice fluttered, but she went on, with her timid smile. "Things of that nature make me tremble rather. How wonderful it must be for a lady to have a husband to take care of her. To protect her from…" The softly uttered words ceased.

  Recalling Lady Clara Buttershaw's strident voice in the park, Ruth could well imagine how this gentle creature would be cowed by her bullying sister. Her own troubles momentarily forgotten, she said, "Forgive my impertinence, ma'am, but I would think if you were wishful to be married— Well, you are so dainty and pretty, I fancy many gentlemen would be—"

  "Would be willing to offer for me?" The great eyes were wistful. "A gentleman did offer once. A very dear gentleman. We were to be married, but you see—"

  "I see that you have been chattering about family matters again, Julia!"

  The resonant voice startled both women, and they turned with varying degrees of alarm as Lady Clara Buttershaw rustled into the room.

  Today, her gown was of magenta satin, cut very low at the bosom, the stomacher tight about her thin waist, the great hooped skirts billowing out below, so that, irreverently, Ruth was put in mind of a dust mop on a stick. "I cannot believe," Lady Clara went on, "that I have kept Mrs. Allington for so long, Julia, as to require that you provide her with entertainment."

  Her sister had come to her feet. Wringing her hands, she pleaded, "But I knew Greville Armitage, Clara. You will remember that we were acquainted, and—"

  "What has that to say to the point? I apologize for Lady Julia, Mrs. Allington. You will be thinking that she is, as the gentlemen would say, very rag-mannered. She has never learned, alas, that 'tis in the poorest taste to regale strangers with personal details in which they very properly have no least interest. My callers are too often embarrassed by such misplaced confidences. I wonder she has not told her life history to the dustman!"

  The target of these waspish remarks hung her head and shivered.

  Longing to say much that would have been considered a good deal more than rag-mannered, Ruth bit her tongue and said nothing.

  With a tight smile that barely broadened her lips, Lady Clara swept on, "I see you have returned my reticule. Let me see it, if you please."

  Ruth made haste to pass her the reticule. "Lady Julia was so kind as to—"

  "As to try for your sympathy by complaining how I am hard and overbearing and have taken over her house— though who would keep this great place in order were I not here, I wish someone might tell me!"

  Ruth's wish was to be anywhere but between these most odd sisters, but before she could voice a denial, Lady Julia stammered, "Indeed, I did not say such things, Clara. And you know how grateful I— But—but Mrs. Allington is poor Greville's child, and I did so want to see her. She is in most trying circumstances, and I had hoped we might be able to—"

  Lady Clara rolled her eyes heavenward and interrupted impatiently. "Sit down, both of you. I have something to say." She then positioned herself on the sofa, her great skirts taking up so much of it that the other two ladies were obliged to occupy the chairs to which she waved them.

  "I have made it my business," she announced regally, "to discover Mrs. Allington's circumstances, and I have given a good deal of thought as to how we might assist her. In spite of what you may have been told, Mrs. Allington, my heart is kind, and my nature generous. Furthermore, being an earl's daughter and the widow of a statesman, I have a wide acquaintanceship among the haut ton. Indeed, one might say without fear of contradiction there is no body who is any body that I do not know. I cannot abide missish airs and false modesty, and do not scruple to assert that everywhere I am held in high regard. It is thanks to my position in Society, that I believe I may have found a solution for you. But I must know of your accomplishments, if any, before I commit myself."

  Despite her initial inclination to wrap Lady Clara Buttershaw's head in the faded tapestry and knot it tightly about her throat, Ruth was beginning to be amused. The woman was so outrageous she was downright laughable. But there was no doubt that she could be an invaluable ally, mindful of which Ruth lowered her eyes and said meekly, "You are all consideration, ma'am. I believe myself well qualified to fill the position of a governess, perhaps, or—"

  "Or a scullery maid? Or a shop assistant?"

  At this, Ruth's amusement vanished and she was rendered so speechless with indignation that my lady was off again before she could recover her voice.

  "Nonsense! As a last resort perhaps, but I think we are not brought to that pass as yet. Nor do I require an inventory of your commonplace accomplishments, for I am sure that however much of a flibbertigibbet he may have been— and all artists I will tell you are flibbertigibbets—Mr. Greville Armitage was also a gentleman and had sufficient sense to see that his daughter was provided with an education befitting her station in life. Now, what I do wish to know is—are you at all proficient in your father's field of endeavour?"

  This most unexpected question brought a quickening of hope, and Ruth rallied her wits sufficiently to assert that she had some artistic skills. "Papa said I showed promise. Sometimes he allowed me to prepare his canvasses, and I took care of his brushes and colours and, very occasionally, he permitted that I paint the backgrounds for his pastorals."

  "Excellent. Now—and this is a more difficult question for you—are you in the slightest familiar with the work of restoration?"

  Almost stammering in her eagerness, Ruth said, "It chances that I am, ma'am. When I was sixteen my father was commissioned to restore some fine old frescoes in an Italian villa, and he took me with him to Milan. I was most pleased to be able to assist him. Much of the work was rather tedious, and he—"

  "Aha! I do believe it may serve!" Lady Clara clapped her hands, then frowned at the tapestry through a taut silence during which neither of her companions dared utter a word. " 'Twill be tricky," she murmured thoughtfully. "He would likely pay no heed to anything I might write in your behalf… But— Of course!" She looked from her sister to the widow as though she had discovered some great truth. "Falcon!"

  Bewildered, Lady Julia said, "Mr. Falcon has a situation for Mrs. Allington?"

  "No, you sill
y creature! Sir Brian Chandler has. And since dear August is a friend of Mrs. Allington's he should be only too willing to write a letter for her. Is that not right, ma'am?"

  "W-well," said Ruth uneasily. "I scarcely— I mean… Do you really think Sir Brian would hire me? Surely, he will want—"

  "A male. Of course! So we must proceed with cunning and caution. But if he will only grant you an interview… Stand up, if you please."

  Too excited to resent the autocratic command, Ruth stood.

  Lady Clara walked around her, eyeing her critically. "Hum. You are not unattractive. The blacks must go, of course."

  "But, my lady—'tis only ten months since Papa—"

  "Quite long enough. Mr. Greville Armitage was not so blockheaded as to wish that strict observance of the proprieties should stand in the way of gainful employment. You will wear sensible garments, mind. No bows, frills, or laces, and absolutely no jewellery. Instruct your woman to cut your hair, or at least arrange it in a plain, no-nonsense style. You must not mention your maiden name, or Sir Brian will likely have none of you, for he is prodigious strait-laced and abhors scandal. But conduct yourself with meekness and humility, and the battle will be half won! You will have to place your son with relatives, of course, for Sir Brian would not tolerate a small boy about the estate, but that should present no difficulty."

  "Well, I— The fact is—"

  "Good! Run along then, and I shall at once write a note to dear August Falcon." Her ladyship smiled with anticipation. "I may even deliver it myself."

  Ruth said earnestly, "Lady Buttershaw, I do not know how to thank you, but—"

  "You may thank me when we have done the thing. Is a chancy business at best, and you shall have to use all your woman's wiles—I hope you have some!—to win Sir Brian's acceptance. Keep in mind that tears may serve if all else fails, for they frighten the gentlemen to death. A sensible female can usually achieve her goals does she resort to tears!"