He had hoped for a glimpse of Mira when the door opened, but not a soul save the footman who answered his knock was to be seen. Disappointed, Harry returned to his conveyance but hesitated to drive away. He wished to ensure Mira would attend and hoped for some sign that he was not so thoroughly in her black books that she would refuse. He was rewarded for his patience when, a few moments later, there appeared a pale oval encircled by red curls at one of the upper story windows.
Harry wished to leap to his feet and wave his hat in the air but decided Mira would deem it too Bertie-like. Instead, he chose to favor her with a more restrained inclination of the head followed by the most speaking look he could manage at such a distance. When she opened the window and smiled down at him, he limited himself to a mere smile in return. Then, with a sense of well-being he had not enjoyed for quite some time, he turned his carriage in the direction of Haversham House in order to prepare a toilette that bespoke enough of Bertie to maintain his alter ego and enough of his true self to best please Mira.
However, when he arrived back at Haversham House, he was dismayed to find matters in total disarray. The front of the house crawled with footman who hacked away at the shrubbery. Inside, the house was overrun with people who scurried to and fro with platters of food, pieces of silver, enormous baskets of flowers, and more than a few who were each in possession of a six-foot statue.
“Mother!” he shouted as he ran up the stairs to accost his parent, but she was nowhere to be found. Instead, he discovered the drawing room had been pillaged of its furniture and its walls lined with a row of stone plinths, most of which bore a statue classical in nature, while the far end of the room sported an arrangement of a huge wicker birdcage supported by several birdbaths of stone surrounded by potted ferns. “Did we not agree on understated?” Harry demanded of no one in particular.
As there was little time remaining before dinner, a meal he decided to take in his room in light of the chaos below, Harry cast aside concerns for the party and turned his thoughts to his task for the evening. He pulled aside a harried-looking footman, ordered up hot water for his bath, and went straight to his clothespress to ensure suitable evening attire awaited, fully aware that his mother had insisted on ordering a new wardrobe for his use every year in spite of his lack of return.
His measurements had altered a bit over the past four years but not in the waist, he was gratified to learn, and not so much in the chest that he couldn’t fasten his coat. As much as he longed to banish Bertie for the evening, he knew he dared not. Nevertheless, he recklessly eschewed the use of lace at collar or wrists and owned it felt good to dress like a man. He hoped it pleased Mira as much as it pleased himself.
He planned his strategy over his dinner tray which consisted of watered-down broth, hastily assembled cucumber sandwiches, a rice pudding and, predictably, sliced apples and cheese, all of which were sure to be on the menu for the party as well. “I thought we agreed on elegant,” he mumbled into his spoon, then chided himself for his critique. It hardly mattered what was served; the retrieval of his orders was the only item on the menu for the night.
As he made his way back to the drawing room he congratulated himself on his accomplishments thus far: he had arranged for an opportunity to meet up with George under favorable conditions, he had kept his mother’s thoughts occupied with party preparations rather than the reasons behind Harry’s request, and he had managed to elicit a smile from Mira. So far, matters had moved forward quite satisfactorily.
With a veritable song in his heart, Harry pulled open the drawing room doors and was assaulted with the most bizarre sight of his entire life. His mother stood barefoot and posed on a plinth at the far end of the room swathed in a too-small Grecian robe and a thoroughly modern feathered turban on her head. However, it was that every visible inch of her face and body was caked with what looked, remarkably, like mud from the garden that took Harry most by surprise.
“Herbert!” Lady Avery cried through a mouth rendered nearly immobile by the thick, dry layer of stuff she had smeared all over her face, neck, and arms. She began to babble at length, but Harry only caught one word in ten. Clearly the preservation of her creation, already cracked in the corners of her lips and becoming more compromised with every word, was of a higher priority than comprehension. However, Harry thought he knew what it was she would have him know.
“Thank you, Mother. I am pleased to have found an evening suit that fits so well. Which brings to mind the close fit of whatever it is you are, er, wearing. And do please relax your arms. It is a charming attitude you have struck but it looks deuced uncomfortable, not to mention that bits and pieces of, er … are sloughing off at an alarming rate and lodging in your décolletage.”
His mother let her arms fall to her sides in defeat. “I thought it would please you! I only wished to coordinate with my understated and elegant décor.”
“In that case, would it be too rude to query as to what prompted the turban? Wouldn’t a wreath of ivy be more in keeping with the theme?”
“You are right, of course, my darling, but do you not recall what I said earlier about Lady Crenshaw’s turban? It is tedious beyond words so I have long been determined to wear this delightful one when next I entertained. As a leader of fashion, I must take my responsibilities seriously,” she explained as a large chunk of dried sludge slid off the side of her face and hit the stone plinth with a low thunk.
“But, Mother, that isn’t mud, is it? From the garden?”
“Yes,” she hissed through the weight on her lips. “What else?”
Stunned, Harry could only stare in fascinated horror as his mother once again took up her awkward pose of one knee drawn up and arms raised in supplication to the gods above. Harry had to own it was naïve of him to expect an evening devoid of his mother’s feather-brained antics and thanked the Lord for small favors when he noted that her mud-smeared palms would surely prevent her from clapping, at least until it had dried, cracked, and joined its fellows in the folds of the Greek robe.
He had imagined that he and his mother would greet their guests as they stood, side-by-elegant-side, in the drawing room where there would be conversation and dancing. However, as he had no plinth of his own, he made his way to the front hall to greet his guests as they entered the house. He hated to appear too eager in the eyes of George, as well as those of Mira, but it was difficult to find too much fault with such an insouciant approach when one considered the alternative. Harry reminded himself that it was meant to be a casual affair after all, and with a deep breath, he girded up his loins for the evening ahead.
Chapter Nine
Mira was pleased with one thing; she was to be escorted to the Avery’s party by her parents and brothers and not the tedious George. She was very glad of another; the hoped-for opportunity to dance with Harry in order to beg his pardon for her behavior last time they had met. She was puzzled as to why she had not seen him in London before now but owned that it was very sweet of Harry to hand deliver her invitation. It was with great relief that she realized he was not angry with her.
Though she had spent two entire Harry-free days in London, they were not hours spent in idleness. She had greatly enjoyed taking her bows in the presence of the young and beautiful Queen Victoria the day after their arrival in London, and Mira felt both intimidated and awe-inspired when she considered that she was a mere few years younger than the monarch. Mira and her mother had also spent a goodly amount of time in the shops and had ordered many new gowns to be done up. Now that she was in the city, Mira could see that some of her fashions were a bit young and did not convey the aura of sophistication she hoped to exude. Her mother no doubt thought her shockingly wasteful, but her father, a man of exquisite tastes, insisted Mira was correct and new gowns should be had.
As she submitted to being turned and pinned and turned again by the dressmaker, Mira realized she had intuitively chosen her previous gowns based on the Harry she had once known. The Harry she had met since was far mo
re dashing than she had ever imagined, and she feared he would look down his nose on a plethora of rosebuds, lace, and knotted ribbon. Instead, she chose more subdued fashions that were the crack of fashion, a bit more off the shoulder, with less pronounced puffed sleeves, and in sumptuous fabrics that accentuated her silhouette rather than obscured it.
It would be weeks before most of the new gowns would be ready, but she had insisted that her favorite, a ball gown of silver tissue with a pink silk rose at the waist, be done up right away. Of this she was most glad of all for it had been delivered just in time for Mira to don it for the Avery’s last minute party at Haversham House. Together with a silver ribbon for her hair, short lace gloves, and pink square-toed dancing slippers, she felt ready for most anything.
She reached the front hall just as her parents strolled in from the library, her papa’s eyes lighting up when he saw her. “Now, that is worth any amount of money!” he said, taking his daughter’s hand and twirling her about.
“I am so very glad you like it, Papa, but I am afraid you shall be sadly shocked when you are dunned for it,” Mira admitted.
Lord Crenshaw looked a question at his wife who merely shook her head and turned away.
“I say, you do look stunning!” Adrian said as he descended the stairs with Stephen close on his heels.
“I agree,” Stephen chimed. “Meanwhile, Mira, you should know that a gathering at Haversham House always includes a few surprises. It is best to behave as if you don’t notice.”
“Notice what?” Mira asked, alarmed.
“Lady Avery. Entirely,” Adrian said dryly.
“You can’t be serious! I am to ignore my hostess?” Mira demanded.
“It’s best,” Stephen added with a nod.
“Stop exaggerating, you two,” Lady Crenshaw sang out. “Of course you are not to ignore Lady Avery, Mira. Your manners, as always, should be impeccable. However, your brothers are correct in that you should take no notice of her little oddities.”
“Little oddities?” Mira echoed. “How little? Am I likely to ignore them unnoticed?”
“Nothing little about ’em,” Adrian insisted. “However, as everyone else will be doing the selfsame thing, you needn’t feel as if you are risking social censure by looking the other way.”
Mira felt her tension dissolve. “Oh, I see! I believe I can do that. But, truly, what sort of little oddities should I be expecting? I am already most familiar with the hand-clapping,” she added.
“The hand-clapping is, without a doubt, the most annoying, but it is rather a small one in comparison to some of the antics I’ve seen,” Stephen replied.
“Now, boys,” their mother admonished as she pulled on her gloves and checked her appearance in the pier glass in the front hall.
“No, Mama, we must speak,” Adrian said. “It’s hardly fair to Mira, otherwise.”
I have to say I agree with Adrian,” Sir Anthony pointed out, standing next to his wife in the mirror and examining her appearance as well. “Ravishing, as always, my dear!” he said with a peck to her cheek.
Lady Crenshaw heaved a deep sigh which Adrian took as capitulation and opened his budget on all things Lady Avery. “There was the time she threw a masquerade ball and she dressed as Boudicca. She carried off more than one woman’s wig with her spear, I must say! And as for the men, they were in constant danger of having their eyes put out.”
“I was never so glad I dressed as a pirate that year,” Sir Anthony mused.
“One eye patch was not sufficient for our esteemed father,” Adrian said in mocking tones.
“Adrian, my boy, you must admit that a firm defense was warranted even if the sightless state does not mix well with waltzing,” his father intoned.
Stephen laughed. “It was indeed hazardous,” he insisted. “But that was not the worst. Do you not remember the ball at which she wore those shocking shoes! I don’t know how she managed to convince anyone to make them for her; they were downright dangerous!”
“Dangerous? Why?” Mira asked, almost afraid of the answer.
“They were ordinary enough shoes,” Adrian explained, “but she browbeat some poor soul into attaching them to blocks of wood because she wished to be the tallest lady in attendance. She continually fell off of them to land in a heap on the floor until the gentleman caught on and felt obliged to catch her in their arms. It put more than one lady’s nose out of joint that night,” he said with a shake of his head.
“That was not the worst by a long shot!” Stephen shuddered. “It was the musical evening she hosted.”
“What’s wrong with a musical evening? It sounds lovely,” Mira replied in hopes she did not sound as defensive as she felt. They were referring to Harry’s mother after all.
“Music is fairly tolerable,” Stephen admitted, “but this was opera, and Lady Avery insisted on singing.”
“Oh!” Mira exclaimed, delighted. “I hadn’t known Lady Avery could sing!
“She can’t,” Lady Crenshaw murmured under her breath, then pretended she hadn’t spoken.
“Not a note,” Stephen continued. “She hit every single one of them wrong and most of the words as well, not to mention, her Italian is execrable.”
“Oh, poor Harry!” Mira said. “That must have been dreadful for him.”
“Don’t you mean Bertie?” Stephen asked mockingly. “At any rate, he wasn’t there. We were none of us old enough to attend any of her parties until after he had left for the Continent. I’m afraid he’s in for a bit of a nasty shock tonight.”
“My favorite is the one how Lord Avery caught his hair on fire whilst reciting some appalling poetry,” Adrian said, “but I can’t think that one possibly true.”
“Let me assure you, Mira,” Sir Anthony added with a wag of his finger, “it is all true, every soul-quaking word of it. Hair erupting into flame, tiny dogs bursting from bosoms, ghosts in the cemetery, all of it! Now, it is time to be off to discover whatever new horror awaits us.”
“Oh, Anthony, you know it’s not as bad as you make it out to be,” his wife said with a bat of her fan to his arm as they disappeared through the open door.
Mira, a brother on each arm as they took the flight of steps to the street where their carriage awaited, dared to continue the conversation. “Why haven’t you two ever spoken of this before?” she asked in whispered tones.
“We thought you most likely to end up with her as a mama-in-law and we didn’t want to discourage it,” Adrian explained.
“But now you don’t mind if I am discouraged?”
“We’re counting on it,” Stephen drawled.
Mira felt her spine stiffen. “I rather like Lady Avery, and I know she likes me. Perhaps we would get on famously were I to become Harry’s wife.”
“Not in the least likely,” Stephen shot back.
“Which, getting along with Lady Avery or marrying Harry?” Mira asked.
“Harry who?” Adrian scoffed and handed her into the carriage.
As Mira rode to Haversham Hall with her family, she began to doubt it had been best to warn her of what to expect. She could feel the strain rise higher and higher with every passing moment until she thought perhaps her hair was standing on end. Indeed, it was a shame as she felt sure Harry would ensure he wouldn’t allow his mother to behave in such a fashion. Her brothers had indicated that Harry had not been in attendance when these appalling incidents occurred, a thought that certainly explained everything. Lord Avery was too easily blown over by his wife’s merest whim, but Harry would make sure matters went smoothly when he was present.
Feeling slightly mollified, Mira gazed out the window as the lights from row after row of lovely Georgian townhouses flashed by. It was a treat when everyone in the neighborhood was in town for the Season and each home occupied and full of life. Haversham House was not far, and it wasn’t long before the lights of that particular manse filled the night sky.
Indeed, there was so much light Mira wondered that it could not be seen fr
om the upper windows of her own home. Every pane of glass was ablaze, though it was clear most of the rooms were not occupied, and the walkway in front of the house was lined with numerous flambeaux of alarming height. As they waited their turn to disembark, Mira could not keep her eyes from the torches, sure that one of the guests would be engulfed in flames unawares, or, at the very least, overcome with smoke.
“What on God’s green earth … ” Sir Anthony barked as he pushed past Mira to have a better look out of the window. “Ladies, leave your cloaks in the carriage, and it would be wise to crumple those balls of puff you call sleeves as you pass by those torches.”
“He’s simply envious that those puffs never caught on amongst the masculine set,” Adrian said with a wink for his sister.
Mira laughed and felt grateful for her family, while, at the same time, sad that this tight-knit, little group would one day be separated, for what was this Season in London about if not her marriage? When her brothers married, their wives would join the family of which Mira was now a part. When she married, she would join her husband’s family. Though she would not live with her parents should she marry George, she would still be a Crenshaw. There was some comfort in that but little else. Mira found of late that George made her flesh crawl, whilst Harry made the blood sing in her veins. She hoped to dance with many gentlemen tonight for one reason and one reason only: to be made more attractive in the eyes of he whom she most admired.
The five of them made their way out of the carriage and walked along, one at a time, as the paving did not allow for even two abreast without danger of bursting into flame. As it happened, Mira was the last to enter the portals of Haversham Hall and was more than a little surprised by the way Harry’s face flooded with relief when he saw her.
Lord Haversham Takes Command Page 10