Two Corinthians

by Carola Dunn

  “Will you miss me?” he asked Lizzie teasingly.

  “The sun will not shine while you are gone!” she exclaimed in a melodramatic tone, and they laughed.

  Her prophecy was all too accurate. In the night the wind died, to be replaced by a persistent, depressing drizzle that continued all week. There was no question of driving or walking in the park, and they took hackneys except to the closest shops. Bertram called twice but found them out, for Lizzie was determined to accumulate a respectable wardrobe as quickly as possible.

  By the time the sun came glimmering damply through the clouds, she knew she was ready for anything but a full dress ball.

  At that point, she realised that Claire had not kept pace. The sum total of her sister's purchases was an umbrella, a pair of half boots and two pair of woollen stockings.

  “This is your Season,” said Claire stubbornly. “I shall not need to dress up, since I am not looking for a husband."

  Lizzie was dismayed. Her own words came back to her, that Claire was afraid of looking pretty, but she did not voice them. It was time to enlist George's aid. He had promised to assist her in helping and encouraging her sister to overcome her dread of the beau monde.

  When George and Bertram appeared on their doorstep that afternoon, she blatantly wangled an invitation to drive out with the former.

  “I shall not need to hide myself under a rug today,” she announced gaily, twirling before them. Her pelisse of cerulean blue lutestring parted to reveal a tantalising glimpse of white jaconet and pale blue flounces. She had practised before a mirror.

  She caught a look of dismay, quickly hidden, on Bertram's face as he turned to Claire and saw her still in her shabby, outdated costume. He was all politeness as he begged for the pleasure of her company, but enthusiasm was lacking. With renewed determination, Lizzie allowed George to hand her into his curricle.

  “Not the phaeton today?” she enquired.

  “I had hoped to have the pleasure of your sister's company today and I thought to introduce her gradually to my driving skills."

  “Oh dear, I'm sorry,” said Lizzie guiltily, “but I have to talk to you. I daresay the curricle is better for that, as you will not need to concentrate so hard upon your horses."

  “True.” His lips twitched. “What is this matter on which you are so eager to consult me that you forced me to offer my services?"

  “It is Claire. You saw her. She refuses to buy any new clothes. I am at my wits’ end trying to find a way to persuade her without putting her on her guard."

  “On her guard?"

  “Yes, I cannot think it right to tell her that Bertram means to offer for her lest he should not come up to scratch. Which he may very well not if she does not buy some pretty gowns! He sets great store by such things, I believe."

  “What makes you think that Pomeroy means to offer for your sister?” George was no longer in the least amused.

  “I heard his sister telling you.” Lizzie bit her lip. “I know I ought not to have listened but I could not help it, honestly."

  “And you feel that Claire will like the match?"

  “Once she is better acquainted with him, how could she not? He is everything that is gentlemanly. At least, if he is an incorrigible flirt like you, I have not heard it?"

  “No, he has never been in the petticoat line.” George was uncommunicative.

  “There is just one thing.” Lizzie hesitated, then plucked up courage and rushed on. “Who is Amaryllis?"

  “That I am not at liberty to discuss. No, I mean it, Lizzie. This once you will just have to curb your curiosity. Let it suffice that she is no impediment to a match between Pomeroy and your sister."

  “Then it would be unconscionable to let a few yards of silk and satin stand in their way. Will you speak to her?"

  George mused. “Yes, I think I see a way to approach the matter. You may not like it though, so I do not mean to tell you any more about it."

  “You are odious,” she said, but returned his grin with a pardonable feeling of smugness.

  It was a balmy spring day, the lamb-like side of March in evidence once more. Daffodils and the Ton were both out in force. Lizzie was far more interested in the latter, and she noticed that they were not much less interested in her. They must suppose her to be George's latest flirt, she thought, until a disturbing thought crossed her mind.

  Lady Caroline, fount of all wisdom, had also mentioned a staggering string of high flyers who had lived under his lordship's protection. It was alarmingly possible that those high-nosed matrons and decorous misses thought her a barque of frailty!

  Just as she reached that conclusion, George said with satisfaction, “Ah, that is what I was looking for. Courtney!” He hailed a gentleman who was riding alongside a barouche wherein sat a plump middle-aged lady and a slender young one.

  The gentleman rode up. “Winterborne, good to see you."

  George turned to Lizzie. “Miss Sutton, allow me to present the Honorable Archibald Courtney. Miss Sutton is Sir James's daughter, of Sutton Stables in Oxfordshire."

  Sir Archibald bowed. “Happy to make your acquaintance, Miss Sutton. Had a couple of good hunters from Sutton Stables. Beg leave to present you to m'mother and sister."

  He signalled to the coachman driving the barouche, who pulled up alongside the curricle. The ladies were introduced, and Miss Courtney fluttered her eyelashes at George.

  The press of traffic forced them to drive on after the exchange of a few words. Lizzie looked back and saw Lady Courtney muttering in her daughter's ear. Warning her against George no doubt, she thought, and giggled.

  George looked at her indulgently. “How much of that did you follow?” he asked. “My choice of Courtney to present to you, when he was escorting his mother, indicated to those watching that you are a respectable female whom they need not scruple to know. Now the business will go faster."

  In the next hour, as they progressed slowly down the park and back again, Lizzie was made known to a bewildering number of strangers of both sexes and all ages. Despite George's stratagem the ladies tended to view her with a certain suspicion, but the gentlemen were sufficiently admiring to raise her spirits.

  “It's amazing what a difference a new gown makes, isn't it?” she said as the curricle swung out of the park onto Oxford Street. “You will speak to Claire soon, will you not?"

  A few minutes later they pulled up behind a carrier's cart which stood unattended at the front door of the Sutton's house. A rawboned horse stood patiently between the shafts, head hanging, and in the back was a large object of indeterminate shape, swathed in holland covers. The front door stood open and from it issued the hoarse sound of men's voices.

  “Ah, they have arrived,” said George obscurely.

  “What is it? I am sure Claire has not ordered anything so enormous except her new greenhouse. I hope they have not delivered that here instead of to Bumble's Green!"

  “I believe you will find it is a little house-warming present."

  “From you? What is it? It is certainly not little!"

  “From me and Pomeroy. Come and see."

  One of the ubiquitous street urchins had appeared to hold the horses. George helped Lizzie down from the carriage and they went into the house. Two large men were wrestling a chair up the narrow stairway.

  She clapped her hands. “Famous! It matches the ones we bought."

  “We felt it was unsporting to condemn the two of you to the elegant chairs while we lounged at ease."

  “It is very generous of you.” Suddenly Lizzie was doubtful. “I don't know if Claire will wish to accept such a handsome gift. I remember she said gloves were unexceptionable, but furniture..."

  “You cannot suppose that Pomeroy would lend himself to anything not perfectly proper."

  “N-no, I suppose not.” She looked at him in indignation as he roared with laughter. “I know that implies that I do not think the same of you. It is true, for I believe you might easily forget propriety if it inte
rfered with generosity."

  He took her hand. “Only the fiddling niceties of propriety,” he said seriously. “I hope you know your reputation will always be safe with me."

  “Oh yes, and thank you so much for the chairs, dear George. Never fear, I shall persuade Claire that it would be the height of incivility to refuse them, so in future we shall all be comfortable together."

  George took his leave and Lizzie went to supervise the rearrangement of the back parlour. This took some time as her mind kept wandering.

  She was not sure who perplexed her most. The chairs were such a solid present. Of course the oddity of such a gift would not deter George if he thought it would be useful, but it seemed such an unlikely choice for a confirmed bachelor and womaniser. She would have expected something more frivolous.

  And as for Bertram, he must consider himself as good as betrothed to Claire. Furniture was so very domestic.

  She was glad when Claire came home to distract her from her reflections.

  Chapter XII—George

  George had no intention of tackling the delicate subject of Claire's shabby and outmoded dress in so public a place as Hyde Park. Another week passed, therefore, before an opportunity arose to speak to her privately.

  One afternoon, Lord Pomeroy suggested to Lizzie that he should take her next day to the Royal Academy and Miss Linwood's Exhibition. Lizzie accepted with alacrity.

  “I hope you will join us,” he said, turning to Claire.

  “Thank you, but I must go to Bumble's Green tomorrow. Mrs Copple writes that the materials for my greenhouse have been delivered, and I must be there to ensure that they build in the right place. There is no need to postpone your outing, though. I shall need Alfie but Molly can go with Lizzie."

  George spoke quickly, before Pomeroy could voice his evident discontent. “I should like to see your Bumble's Green house. May I drive you there?"

  Claire looked at him dubiously. “I shall leave early, there is nothing of interest, and I must be there all day."

  “I look forward to learning all about the construction of greenhouses,” he said glibly.

  “What a rapper!” exclaimed Lizzie.

  Claire laughed, but she accepted his offer. “I am willing to condemn you to a day of tedium because the gig from the livery stables is both uncomfortable and exceeding slow,” she confessed. “I daresay it will take scarce half as long to get there with you driving, sir."

  George noted with some amusement that Pomeroy was looking daggers at him.

  “I wager I can do it in a third the time of a hired gig,” the younger man said challengingly.

  “But not tomorrow,” George pointed out, “since you are engaged to guide Lizzie's artistic education."

  “That does not matter,” said Lizzie, abandoning art without a second thought. “You ought to have a race. I will go with Bertram and Claire with you, George."

  This proposal united the gentlemen.

  “Take a female on a curricle race?” Bertram said, horrified. “You must have windmills in your head, Lizzie."

  “Would it be so very unladylike?"

  “Not merely unladylike but highly dangerous,” George explained.

  “Oh, then if it is dangerous, you must not race after all. Are you a member of the Four-horse Club, Bertram?"

  “No,” he growled.

  “A race would not be fair then, for George is. How odd, I had thought you a top sawyer too."

  “Pomeroy is most certainly a top sawyer,” George assured her. “To my knowledge he has been put up for membership more than once but has refused the honour."

  “Why?” asked Lizzie.

  Lord Pomeroy looked harrassed. “Because I refuse to be seen wearing a waistcoat with inch-wide blue and yellow stripes!” he snapped. “I shall call for you tomorrow at eleven, Miss Elizabeth, if that suits you? Good day, ma'am,” he said to Claire, and departed.

  “Oh dear,” sighed Lizzie, “he is miffed at me and I do not even understand why."

  “Don't take it personally,” advised George. “He simply transferred to you his annoyance with me."

  “Why should he be angry with you?” Claire asked in astonishment.

  George silenced Lizzie with a glance. “Perhaps he doubts his ability to best me in the race we shall not be holding,” he suggested.

  “I wish I had never said anything about speed!"

  “Do not tease yourself, my dear. Men are odd creatures indeed when it comes to a question of sporting prowess. What time do you wish to leave tomorrow, taking into account the superior speed of my curricle over the gig?"

  Claire smiled and shook her head at him. “Would nine be too early?"

  “Not at all, ma'am. You must remember that at heart I am a countryman, not a Town beau. I shall see you at nine."

  Lizzie went out to the front hall with him.

  “Why did you look at me like that?” she demanded. “I do not believe Bertram is afraid of racing you, so why is he in a tweak?"

  “Because I am to spend an entire day with your sister, goosecap. Chaperoned only by Alfie and Mrs—er—Copple."

  “You mean he is jealous? He is not angry with Claire, is he?"

  “No harm done if he is,” said George calmly, taking his hat, gloves and whip from the hall table. “A little competition never hurt anyone."

  Not that there was any real competition involved, he thought as he drove back to Bellingham House through the busy streets. He could not serve Pomeroy a backhanded turn by stealing another bride from under his nose. If the man only knew it, he was doing him a favour. It was Pomeroy who cared about Claire's appearance. For himself, he enjoyed her company whether she was up to her elbows in potting soil or wearing that enchanting hat with the lilacs which Lizzie had forced on her.

  The feeling of calm was notably absent when George set out the next morning. In fact, there was a peculiar flutter under his blue-and-yellow striped waistcoat. It might have been caused by something he ate, but he was inclined to put it down to a perfectly natural apprehension at the prospect of taking to task a young lady over whom he had no possible claim to authority. She would have every excuse for taking umbrage, and the last thing he wanted was to be at outs with Claire.

  He thought of Lizzie and squared his shoulders.

  He was wearing his Four-horse Club waistcoat, a flamboyant garment best reserved for meetings of the club, for two reasons: it would amuse Lizzie, and break the ice for a discussion of fashion with Claire. Why had he let Lizzie talk him into this? He might have been looking forward to a peaceful day in the country with a pleasant companion. Instead, Claire would withdraw behind her veil of abstracted indifference and likely never trust him again.

  Her trust was disturbingly important to him. Perhaps it was best that he should lose it since she was to marry Pomeroy.

  Lizzie came down to the entrance hall to tell him that Claire would be with him in a moment. She giggled when she saw the waistcoat.

  “It is a bit bright, but nothing truly out of the ordinary. It does not begin to compare with the clothes Horrid Horace wears, or even my brother. Only someone as particular in his dress as Bertram could take exception to it."

  “You do not think your sister will swoon at the sight?"

  “No, she will probably not even notice. It seems excessively odd to me that Bertram should persist in his suit when she is so utterly uninterested in her appearance. Or his, come to that. You do mean to talk to her about it, do you not?"

  “I do, though I cannot say I look forward to it."

  “I am vastly obliged to you, dear George. Oh, here she comes. Look, Claire, George is wearing his Four-Horse Club waistcoat."

  George turned to watch her coming down the stairs. She moved with unconscious grace, her tall, slender form floating down as if she weighed no more than a feather. The tips of her delicate, competent fingers grazed the bannister and he shivered as he imagined them caressing his cheek, his back...

  She flushed under his gaze and put up
a nervous hand to her hair, neatly coiled under the lilac hat. Her gardening clothes were half-hidden by the new India shawl. He wanted to assure her that she looked delightfully, but that would not suit his purpose. Either she would be reassured and so take his advice less seriously or, since he had complimented her on those garments before, she would think him mocking.

  “Shall we be off? My cattle are champing at their bits."

  “I am looking forward to the drive.” She pulled on her gloves, kissed Lizzie goodbye and wished her an enjoyable day. “It will be pleasant just to get out of the city,” she continued as they went down the steps, “but I hope also to see for myself your prowess as a whipster. If there is a stretch of road where it may be done safely, will you spring the horses? Is that the correct term?"

  “It is, and I will, if you wish it."

  He handed her into the curricle, then took the reins from Alfie, who had been holding the horses, and joined her. Alfie hopped up behind and they were off. George would have preferred to be alone with her, but if he had to have an audience for their coming conversation, a slow-witted lad devoted to his mistress could not be bettered.

  “I have never been driven faster than a trot. It sounds exhilarating."

  “I never suspected you of sporting proclivities, Claire!"

  “I'm afraid you think me a sad stick-in-the-mud."

  He smiled down into her wistful grey eyes. “How could I possibly think such a thing of a woman as little bound by convention as you? And no, nor do I think you ‘peculiar,’ as your mother would have it. I can only wonder at your ability to tread the fine line between disregard for convention and outright impropriety."

  “Even Mama never accused me of impropriety."

  “Then I have no hesitation in pronouncing you not guilty."

  They talked of commonplaces while he negotiated the busy streets of north London, until they passed the village of Islington and joined the Cambridge turnpike. A straight stretch of road lay ahead, devoid of traffic.

  “Hold onto your hat!” cried George, and gave his team their heads.