Two Corinthians

by Carola Dunn

  “I don't know what you mean by giving a party in Claire's honour,” she hissed. “It looks most particular! I warned you that Bertram means to offer for her."

  “You are mistaken, ma'am,” he responded coldly. “My aunt is giving the party to introduce Lizzie to her friends. If your brother chooses to interpret it otherwise, then perhaps a hint of competition will make him appreciate Claire better."

  She flushed. “Just because he is not demonstrative, you must not suppose that he does not hold her in affection.” Glaring at him, she flounced off.

  As well be hanged for the deed as the appearance, he thought, and went to look for Claire. He grinned when he found her surrounded by fellow-Corinthians, friends whom he had invited this evening but whom Bertram had originally presented to her in his absence. There was more competition there than Bertram had bargained for.

  Claire smiled at him, but he decided against breaking into her circle. Instead he went to find Lady Jersey. The handsome, malicious leader of the Ton was of an age with him, and she always enjoyed flirting with an attractive gentleman. Though it would be improper for him to request vouchers for the Suttons, there was no harm in turning her up sweet before Tillie approached her.

  * * * *

  As duly noted in the Morning Post, on Wednesday, 25th April, 1821, Miss Sutton and Miss Elizabeth Sutton made their first appearance at Almack's, escorted by Mrs Tilliot and George, Lord Winterborne. His lordship had had too many flirts in his time for the latest to be worthy of a mention in the gossip column on the next page. Besides, it was filled with the names of those who, having unwisely visited Queen Caroline, had been crossed off Carlton House's guest list. Prinny, it was said, had taken to his bed at the news that his wife was still insisting on being crowned at his side.

  George tossed the paper aside. He had derived much amusement from the evening.

  There was Lizzie's sotto voce indignation when she found that this mecca of the Fashionable World was decorated without distinction and served an inferior supper. It had not prevented her jubilation when Sally Jersey, with a slyly inquisitive glance, presented George to her as a partner for the waltz.

  There was Horace Harrison's vexed wail, “But they are shockingly outmoded,” when he was turned away at the door for wearing turquoise trousers instead of the de rigueur knee-breeches.

  There was Mrs Drummond Burrell's horrified face when Tillie informed her that modern society was utterly lacking in all the social graces.

  Best of all, there was Pomeroy's annoyance that George, not he, had been instrumental in obtaining their admittance.

  * * * *

  Matters came to a head between them towards the end of May. George was on edge, increasingly disturbed by Pomeroy's slowness in declaring himself. Since he had maintained his self-imposed distance from Claire, never dancing with her more than once and escorting Lizzie more often, he failed to see why Pomeroy should be equally touchy. Be that as it may, when Gentleman Jackson paired them in a bout of fisticuffs in his saloon, they both waded in with uninhibited fervour.

  They were equally matched, George with a slight advantage in height and reach, Bertram with comparative youth on his side. George emerged with sore knuckles and a sore face, satisfied that his final uppercut had left Bertram with a sorer jaw, though he'd not feel it till he woke. He was annoyed with himself, though, for indulging in such a juvenile display of rivalry. Brushing aside congratulations, declining first aid, he summoned a hackney, since he had walked to Bond Street, and went home.

  As he stepped into the imposing front hall of Bellingham House, Lizzie emerged from the drawing room, looking back over her shoulder.

  “Then we shall see you this evening, Mrs Tilliot,” she said, then turned her head and shrieked, “George! You've been in a carriage accident!"

  She ran to his side, tenderly took his arm and peered up into his face as Claire and Tillie followed her into the hall. The butler, two footmen and three maids appeared from nowhere.

  Claire hurried to George's other side and, ignoring his expostulations that he was perfectly all right, they led him to the drawing room. On the way, they passed a large mirror, and he caught a glimpse of what all the fuss was about. His lower lip was split and swollen to the size of a damson, traces of blood from a nose-bleed stained his upper lip, while his right eye was half-closed, surrounded by a blotch of angry red that already showed signs of purpling.

  His ribs began to ache as Claire and Lizzie deposited him on a sofa. Tillie took her first good look at him, moaned, and sank back on another sofa with her eyes shut.

  Claire promptly abandoned him in favour of succouring the old lady. At that moment the butler appeared with a bottle of brandy.

  “Jarvis, tell Mrs Tilliot's maid to bring her sal volatile,” ordered Claire.

  To George's disgust, the brandy bottle disappeared again with the butler. However, a moment later it reappeared, clutched in the fist of a footman who bore in his other hand a plate with a slice of raw beef-steak on it. He was grinning. Slade, the valet, followed him with a bowl of warm water, clean white cloths and a pot of salve.

  “Your nose is bleeding again,” announced Lizzie. “You are too big for that sofa. Lie down on the floor, flat on your back. Where's Jarvis? We need to put his keys down the back of your neck."

  “I cannot drink the brandy if I am flat on my back,” George mumbled through his swollen mouth, but Slade was on Lizzie's side and he found himself examining the ornate plasterwork of the ceiling through the one eye now available to him. The beef-steak descended on the other eye.

  Lizzie's blond curls eclipsed the ceiling as she gently wiped his face with a warm, wet cloth.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  He gasped as Slade's hand descended on his nose with a cold wet cloth and considerable pressure.

  “Duthig,” he muttered irritably. “It was odly a fredly batch."

  “Best wait till his nose stops bleeding, miss,” advised Slade. “Ah, Mr Jarvis, may we borrow your keys?"

  “Mrs Tilliot's maid says she has no sal volatile, miss,” the butler reported to Claire as an icy, jagged bunch of keys was forced down the back of George's neck.

  Somehow he managed to turn his head a little to look suspiciously at his cousin. She threw him a large wink.

  “Hartshorn, then, or whatever she uses,” said Claire impatiently, chafing Tillie's hand.

  “She don't have any remedies because she never faints, it seems, miss. Might I suggest a drop of brandy?"

  “An excellent idea,” said George, scattering nurses, cloths and beef as he surged to his feet. The keys slid down inside his shirt. “Thank you, Lizzie, thank you, Slade, I shall be much the better for a glass of brandy. Ouch!” The keys stabbed him in the back as he flung himself into a chair. He jumped to his feet again. “Slade, get these damn things out of my clothes."

  “You had best see a doctor,” said Lizzie anxiously, averting her eyes as the harrassed valet pulled the tail of his master's shirt out of his pantaloons. “I believe you are delirious. Do sit down and try to tell us what happened."

  Claire, her arm solicitously about Tillie's shoulders, holding a glass of brandy to her lips, glanced at him. “Yes, do, George,” she said. “You have frightened poor Mrs Tilliot into a spasm and I don't believe there is anything seriously wrong with you."

  He tried to grin at her, unaware of the frightful grimace that crossed his battered face. “You have more sense than all the rest put together,” he said approvingly. “It was just a boxing match at Gentleman Jackson's, a friendly meeting."

  “If that was a friendly meeting I should hate to see the results of an unfriendly meeting,” said Claire with asperity. “May I ask whom you met?"

  “Lord Pomeroy."

  “Bertram did that to you?” blurted Lizzie, aghast. “The horrid brute. I shall never speak to him again."

  “You can come down off your high ropes, Lizzie. I tipped him a settler."

  She looked blank.

&n
bsp; “I collect that means he rendered him unconscious, Lizzie. Gentlemen have incomprehensible notions of enjoyment.” Claire paused as an abigail entered bearing a purple ostrich plume and a tinderbox. “Burnt feathers, the very thing! I see we are no longer needed here. I hope you will be well enough to join us this evening, ma'am. Come, Lizzie."

  One-eyed, George watched her haughty departure. At the last moment she turned to him and said, “As for you, my lord, unless you mean to sport that face about town, you had best rusticate for a while."

  He could only hope he was right in thinking he saw a glint of amusement in her eyes.

  “Not my best hat!” wailed Tillie. “Go and sew it back on again this minute, you silly girl."

  “Whatever possessed you to sham a swoon?” George asked her.

  “I don't know,” she said airily. “At the time it seemed the right thing to do."

  “I suppose as far as I am concerned the right thing—indeed the only thing—to do is take Claire's advice and rusticate."

  The next morning he left for Dorset.

  The countryside was very different from Northumberland's grandeur, with gentle chalk hills and wooded valleys. The Winterbornes had originated here, before Edward I sent them north to guard the border. Since 1300 the estate had been the residence of the eldest son, and George had lived there in his earliest youth, before his grandfather's death. It had been his since he reached his majority. He had introduced modern farming methods and built a new wing on the fifteenth century manor, and now it was waiting to become a family home again.

  He had not touched the old, formal gardens. The old-fashioned, sweet scented roses grew well here. He must send to the Vineyard Nursery for some bushes of Clair de Lune. Claire would tell him where best to plant them, laying out new flowerbeds and arbours.

  Except that Claire would never see his gardens.

  Everywhere he turned that first day he saw her face, heard her soft voice, longed to consult her on this small matter and that. He drank himself to sleep, and thereafter banished her from his mind with hard work on the estate all day and brandy in the evenings. He stayed two weeks, until every trace of the damage to his face had healed. Then he set out for Essex.

  He passed through London, arriving late one evening, leaving early the next morning, seeing no one but Tillie.

  His brother was glad to have his support for the ten days before his wedding. Their father came two days early. A long, wordless embrace ended the estrangement between the two, bringing unashamed tears to George's eyes. The next day their sister Mary and her husband arrived, and Tillie.

  Amaryllis was stunningly beautiful as she walked down the aisle on Lord Bellingham's arm, in white satin with her copper hair gleaming through her veil. Standing with the bridegroom at the altar, George was not in the least surprised that Danny could not take his eyes off her. He doubted his brother heard a word of the Reverend Raeburn's short homily, devoted as it was to the joys of marriage (the vicar had recently married Amaryllis's ex-governess.)

  Yes, his new sister-in-law was beautiful. Perhaps it was understandable that Bertram Pomeroy, still dazzled by the memory of the woman he had been betrothed to for eight years, was slow to appreciate Claire's more subtle loveliness.

  He would give him one more month, he decided. It was mid-June; the Coronation was set for the 19th of July; if Claire was still free on the 20th he would offer her his hand and his heart, and be damned to altruism!

  Chapter XVI—Bertram

  “It's Miss Sutton's man, my lord. Says he was told to take the basket to you, and he won't give it over."

  Bertram groaned and opened his eyes. It was late morning on the day after the fight, but he still felt fragile. He moved his jaw with experimental caution and winced.

  “Wha’ say?” he asked Pinkerton through half-closed lips.

  The valet repeated his announcement.

  “Co’ i'."

  Correctly interpreting this as permission to admit Alfie, Pinkerton disappeared. Though Bertram had not the least desire to see him, he knew all too well that the boy's primary virtues were obedience and persistence. If put out, he would doubtless haunt the doorstep until he delivered his burden into the correct hands, and meanwhile Claire and Lizzie would be without his services.

  Alfie trotted in and deposited a rush basket on the bed beside him. “I brung this, Mr Lord,” he said unnecessarily, beaming. “For you."

  Bertram nodded thanks and dismissal, then wished he hadn't as hammers started pounding behind his eyes. As he closed them again he saw his efficient servant lead the visitor gently from his chamber, mission completed.

  Pinkerton's soft footsteps returned and he felt the weight of the basket removed.

  “Wai',” he said. “Wha’ is i'?"

  There was a rustle of paper. “A punnet of strawberries, my lord. Must be early ones from Cornwall, and they're beauties if I may say so. Then there are two bowls,” sniff, sniff, “one of gooseberry fool, if I am not mistaken, and one of restorative meat jelly. Most appropriate, my lord."

  Tenderly touching his jaw, Bertram had to agree, but he wondered how the Suttons knew of his débâcle. He could not believe George had boasted of it, for however irritating the fellow was a gentleman.

  “Here's a note, my lord. I shall remove the victuals to the kitchen."

  Bertram stretched out his hand for the paper and ventured to open his eyes again. It was bearable as long as he kept his head still.

  “Dear Bertram,” he read, “I was so sorry to hear of your indisposition. I made the fool and the jelly with my own hands (and Mrs Rumbelow's help), and I went to the market at crack of dawn for the berries. Don't worry, I took Alfie with me. Lizzie."

  Lizzie, of course.

  The thought of her at Covent Garden Market among the foul-mouthed vendors, with or without Alfie, made him shudder. He could see the imp in her eyes as she wrote that, aware that he would disapprove. He did not know whether he was more impressed by her bountiful sympathy or her indiscretion.

  She had surely not realised how her kindness might be viewed by the scandalmongers. Like the chairs he and Winterborne had given the Suttons, the gift would be perfectly unexceptionable from both of the ladies; from one, it was open to misinterpretation. At least she was not so lost to propriety as to deliver it herself!

  What a confusing creature she was, dispensing her bounty in such a way that he must be as critical as he was grateful.

  He heard the arrival of more visitors in the outer room: Fergie and Dartford come to commiserate, and to roast him on his defeat no doubt. They must not see Lizzie's letter. He thrust it under his pillow.

  No sooner had his friends left than Lady Caroline appeared. He was not pleased to see his sister, since if she had heard of the fight the story must be the latest on-dit. He was still less pleased when he realised that Aunt Dorothy and Amelia were with her.

  “What the devil?” he hissed as she bent over his bed of pain.

  She shrugged helplessly. “You know what she is like, I could not stop her,” she whispered.

  Lady Harrison advanced majestically. “I have brought Amelia to soothe you in your affliction, Bertram,” she announced. “She shall brew you a posset with her own hands."

  “But Mama, I do not know how to brew a posset!” blurted the unfortunate damsel.

  “I daresay you have never been in a kitchen in your life,” said Caroline soothingly. “And it is really not the thing for a young girl to be in a gentleman's bedchamber, or in his lodgings, aunt, even if they are cousins."

  “There can be no harm in it, since they are to be wed,” said her ladyship."

  Amelia rushed from the room in tears.

  Bertram sat bolt upright. His jaw dropped, causing him excruciating agony which he ignored. “What did you say, Aunt Dorothy?” he asked, his voice icy. “I assure you I have not requested your daughter's hand in marriage, nor have I any intention of doing so."

  “Amelia does not want to marry Bertram in the least,
” Caroline pointed out.

  “It is in every way an eligible match,” Lady Harrison said obstinately.

  Forestalling Bertram's explosion, Pinkerton appeared in the doorway, wooden-faced. “My lady, Miss Harrison asked me to inform your ladyship that she has gone down to the carriage."

  With a venomous glare at Bertram, Aunt Dorothy marched out.

  “I shall take the poor child in hand next Season,” said Caroline. “No more of that pink muslin, which makes her look quite washed out. Now, what is all this about a fist-fight with Winterborne?"

  “I am sure you know all the details,” said her brother acidly, sinking back on his pillows. “Do go away, Caroline. I am feeling perfectly devilish."

  “They are saying you quarreled over Lizzie Sutton. I am trying to quash the rumours, of course, as is Mrs Tilliot, and Lizzie carried it off with the greatest composure at the Eversley's rout last night. George has gone out of town."

  “She's a brave little soul, isn't she? I can just imagine the old tabbies with their snide remarks."

  “I know you were not fighting over Lizzie, but were you fighting over Claire?"

  Bertram frowned. “I cannot believe he has serious intentions towards a plain female like Claire. His high-flyers have always been the most stunning creatures, his flirts too, and he does not need her money any more than I do, unlike our obnoxious cousin Horace. It's more likely he is interested in Lizzie, as the gossips have it, for she is a pretty chit. Yet there is a sense of rivalry."

  “I do not like to hear you call Claire plain, Bertram.” It was Caroline's turn to frown. “If your intentions towards her are not serious, it grows late for finding an alternative."

  “Oh, I daresay I shall marry her in the end, but you told me yourself that there is no hurry. I am enjoying the Season with no need to hunt for a bride, thanks to your brilliant notion, and as soon as we are betrothed there will be a thousand plans to make."

  “All the same, you would do well to make more effort to fix your interest,” said his sister, but his flattery achieved its aim and she ceased to press him.