A Loyal Companion

by Barbara Metzger

  Her father nodded sadly. “Lady Atterbury.”

  *

  Among wolves, only the dominant female gets to mate.

  Chapter Four

  Of all the courtship rituals I have studied, the London Season sounds the most bizarre. My information comes from Muffy, the greatest feline impersonator of my experience. I have seen that cat portray a snowdrift, a dish towel, and a tea cozy. Such virtuosity!

  According to Muffy, whose observations I cannot discount since she was witness to two Corwith sisters’ come-outs before Jennifer’s, human persons’ mating behavior seems contrary to nature.

  For one thing, the proper breeding age is arbitrarily set—by a committee, mind you—regardless of individual maturation. Then all of those selected (debutantes) to meet the most eligible males (catches) are herded together (the Marriage Mart) and dressed alike. In white, no less. The brightest colors, the most sparkly jewels, the finest plumage, are reserved for those who already have a mate! If a female loses her mate, she is forced to wear darkest black, even if she wishes to encourage another male.

  In many species, the males fight for the females. Muffy says the London gentlemen often participate in fisticuffs, swordwork and marksmanship contests, even hold races. But the young women are not permitted to view these activities, or the unclad males, so how can they select the mate who is strongest, fittest, fastest, best able to protect them and their children? The debutantes are not permitted to be alone with the men, no, not even to dance more than twice in an evening with the same partner. How can they make a proper choice? No wonder they have so many ugly babies.

  Muffy calls me naive. They choose for two things, she says, purity and property. The sexes are kept so firmly apart because chastity in females is valued above beauty or intelligence. There are chaperons and open doors and enough rules to choke a Chihuahua. This I can understand. A male wants to know that his own progeny will inherit his property, not some other stud’s in the stable. The females accept this because property means possessions and power in London, and security for their families. A man does not have to be as brave as a bull, as strong as a stag, as fast as a falcon, as smart as a dog, to win the maiden of his choice. He has to be rich. The wealthier the female, the wealthier the male has to be to prove he can provide for her.

  In her descriptions of the marriage contracts, Muffy has never mentioned anything about affection, devotion, or respect, which is not surprising for a cat. I question the absence of love in these negotiations, however, since mankind has made so much of that emotion over their centuries. Muffy just laughs. I shall wait until visiting Almack’s to see for myself.

  While I am looking forward to the Metropolis and exploring its possibilities, Miss Sonia does not share my enthusiasm. Her steps lag, her words come slower, her mouth droops. She grieves at the loss of her home, and I am sorry. I drop my bowl into her half-filled trunk to say, “Don’t be afraid, I am coming with you.” She smiles, but I can see she is sad. She’s torn, having to leave her beloved father to make him happy, feeling guilt that his joy causes her pain. She does not understand: he is not her mate, she is not his dog. I lick her nose.

  *

  “Well, let me take a look at you, girl.” The old lady raised her lorgnette and motioned for Sonia to turn around, like a horse on the auction block. “Now let me see a curtsy,” she barked.

  Sonia dipped into a bow suitable for royalty, and only ruined the graceful effect by making the obeisance to the dog at her side instead of toward her grandmother. Fitz lowered his head, as he’d been taught. Lady Atterbury made a sound almost like a chuckle. “You’ll do. The hair is atrocious, of course, that sunburned skin is an abomination, and whoever had the dressing of you should take up upholstering. What do you think, Bigelow?”

  Lady Atterbury’s abigail, as venerable in her starched black uniform and lace apron as her employer was in taffeta and turban, made her own inspection. Sonia held her breath. “Monsieur Gautier. Lemon juice mixed with strawberries. Celeste’s. Breathing lessons.”

  “See to it,” the dowager said, as if making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear overnight were as easy as matching ribbons. Lady Atterbury nodded to Bigelow, dismissing the poor woman to her Herculean task, then raised the looking glass again.

  “And I suppose this is the animal that stirred the bumble-bath in the first place.”

  With a slight hand gesture Sonia had Fitz approach her grandmother’s chair, sit, and offer his paw for shaking. Her Grace twitched her skirts aside. “A gentleman always waits for a lady to offer her hand first, Sonia. Remember that.”

  “Yes, Grandmama,” Sonia said, ordering Fitz back to her side. “But he truly is a well-behaved dog. He won’t cause anyone any trouble at all.”

  “Well, it’s all the rage for ladies to carry their pets around with them. Margaret Todd even brought her parrot to tea at Devonshire House, I understand. All the unmarried women had to flee the room when it started to talk. I have a feeling you’ll be an Original on your own, dog or no, but we’ll see. Once the Season gets rolling, you’ll send him back to Berkshire fast enough, I’m sure. He’ll be company for you till the ball, anyway.”

  “The ball, Grandmama?”

  “Of course; didn’t think I’d fire you off without the proper affaire, did you? Invitation list is in the study; you can start on them tomorrow, after your fittings. Marston, he’s the butler, don’t you know, can help with the details, orchestra, refreshments, that type of thing.”

  “I…I’m to plan my own ball?”

  “You don’t expect me to do all that work at my age, do you? I’m too weak for that fardling nonsense. Don’t get your garters in a welter; Marston knows how I like things. The ball will be in a month. Plenty of time. Bigelow should have you in shape by then. I’ve arranged with the war minister’s wife to have your scapegrace brother here on leave to stand up with you. That clunch Elvin writes that he will still be on his wedding trip, and George cannot leave the milk-and-water miss he married. We cannot wait.”

  Sonia ignored the insult to her father; he’d warned her she’d better get used to them. “I’d be more than happy to delay the ball, Your Grace. Couldn’t we just hold a quiet dinner, a small party?” she asked hopefully.

  “Hmph. I know what’s due the Harkness name, no matter if some don’t. Wouldn’t want those old gabble-grinders thinking I’m a lickpenny, would you?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Elvin’s paying anyway. That’s not to the point, girl. You are not Out till you’ve been presented to the queen and to the ton. And until you are Out, you can’t go out. No balls, no picnics, no theater. I don’t even want anybody seeing you looking like something that’s been dragged through a bush backwards. Perhaps next week we might entertain some of my particular friends for tea.”

  “That sounds…lovely. May I at least go sightseeing?”

  “I am too old and frail to go gawking like a tourist at the Tower and Astley’s Circus, and it ain’t fitting for you to go with no one but servants. You’ll make friends at your ball, gentlemen who will be in alt to escort you to such pawky places. In a group, of course. My goddaughter Rosellen has agreed to take you around with her after your presentation, so I won’t have to drain my strength with those routs and venetian breakfasts. Lady Conare, Rosellen is now. She’s good ton even if Conare’s only a baronet. Carlton House set, don’t you know, and only one away from the earldom now.”

  Sonia did not care about routs or the Regent’s friends; she couldn’t bear the idea of three weeks in the house with this crusty old tartar. Grandmama was about as frail as medieval armor. “Fitz will need exercise, Your Grace.”

  “You may take him to the park. The one in the square, of course, not Hyde Park, where you’d be ogled by every half-pay officer and libertine on the strut. Nothing will ruin a gel’s chances faster. You’ll take servants with you, naturally. We’ll hire a groom and a maid for you. No reason to disturb my regular staff.”

  “But, Grandmama, I’ll be safe with Fitz,
and I am used to doing for myself.”

  Lady Atterbury rapped Sonia’s knuckles with her lorgnette. “And I am used to being obeyed, young lady. You kick up a dust and I’ll send you off to that academy in Bath so fast, you’ll be there before Miss Meadow gets the note saying you’re coming. You will go to the park and no further, you will wear a bonnet at all times so you lose that gypsy complexion, and you will always be accompanied by servants. Is that understood?”

  Sonia bowed her head. “Yes, Your Grace.” She thought of one appeal Lady Atterbury might heed. “But the expense…”

  “Elvin can afford it. Better he spend his blunt on you than squander it on that young filly.”

  Sonia had already heard the dowager’s opinions on her father’s remarriage. All of Grosvenor Square must have heard. Before she was dismissed into Bigelow’s charge, Sonia was treated to another lecture about what was due the family name, the Harkness name, that is. Grandmama felt the Randolphs could go to hell in a hand basket, and the sooner her granddaughter shed that label, the better. Here she shook her finger under Sonia’s nose, saying: “And I won’t have you throwing yourself away on any soldiers, scholars, or starving second sons.”

  Gamblers and gazetted fortune hunters were also forbidden, as were rakes, widowers, and Americans. Nabobs might be tolerated if they were Oxford-educated, and émigré French aristocrats, if their property had not been confiscated. Lady Atterbury did not bother to mention the rising London merchant class nor, in, a rare moment of noblesse oblige, the gentry. Welcome, of course, were wealthy peers, preferably above the title of baronet. Impoverished noblemen were only slightly less acceptable, since the duchess was not unreasonable and there were more of the latter than the former. Sonia was well dowered enough, if the title was noble enough. After all, that’s the way things were done in the belle monde.

  “But don’t think I mean to push you into a marriage you cannot like, Sonia. Those gothic forced marriages just create the foundation for scandal. No, I’ll make you the same offer I made Catherine. If you cannot find a suitable gentleman to wed, you may stay on here as my companion.”

  *

  “Well, now I know why Catherine married Backhurst.” Sonia had conferred with Marston and confirmed appointments with Bigelow. She had taken tea with Lady Atterbury after the dowager’s nap―no second servings, fidgeting, or feeding the dog. She had enjoyed a fifteen-minute airing in the park with Fitz—no running, shouting, or talking to strangers—and was finally sitting alone in her bedroom with something on her face that smelled like what the pigs got, if there was nothing better for them. She couldn’t even hug her own dog, because he was too clever to get near her. She could talk to him, though, the way she always did.

  “Do you know what I think, Fitz? I think I hate it here. All this effort and extravagance for a ball I didn’t want in the first place. And for what?”

  Fitz thumped his tail.

  “To show off an expensive piece of goods to discerning buyers! That’s all this is, you know. Grandmama means me to land a title to make up for Mama’s ‘lapse.’ She thinks my portion is bait enough for a viscount at least, especially when dangled alongside the Harkness connection.” She sighed. “She’s most likely right.”

  Sonia scrubbed the mess off her face as though she could wash away the disquieting thoughts. When she was finished she sat on the floor with her arms around Fitz and watched the fire burn down in the grate.

  “Well, I don’t care. I’m not going to let her sell me off to the highest bidder, and I’m not going to stay here as her lackey either! I’ll marry the first nice man I meet, see if I don’t. I don’t want any stiff-rumped nobleman looking down his nose at me and Papa, always expecting me to act the lady. And I don’t care if he’s poor. In fact, I might like him better if he needs my money, for then he might be more manageable about the settlements.”

  A few minutes went by while she thought, then: “He has to be pleasant, of course, and he absolutely must prefer the country. On the other hand, perhaps I could use my money to purchase a country estate—nothing too grand, naturally—and he could use the rest to stay in the City. That might be even better. We could work it out later.” She yawned. “He should have a nice smile…and smell good.”

  *

  So I dragged in the butcher’s delivery boy.

  Chapter Five

  What is beauty? What is the mystery of one creature’s attraction to another?

  Someone likened truth to beauty, but you cannot taste truth, or touch it, or feel it. It won’t get your heart thumping, your pulses racing. It won’t lick your ear. Besides, what a frog might find fascinating won’t hold true for the titmouse. Then again, human persons find beauty in daubs of paint, chunks of marble, and Italian sopranos. Who can understand taste?

  Take ticks, please. No one likes the bloodthirsty little buggers, no one finds them the least attractive—except other ticks. I truly believe this is where love enters the equations. The ugliest equine in horsedom could be grazing in the field, all swaybacked and moth-eaten, but let that mare come into season, and the stallion is in love. Old Gigi is the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen. The sap rises, his heart sings. If he cannot be with her, he’ll die. That’s love. That’s the fire that lets creatures as silly as sheep perpetuate their species, and the flame that helps a lady starling select one gentleman out of a flock of a hundred identical males. It’s magic.

  If marriage has nothing to do with love, as Muffy so firmly believes, there is no reason for cosmetics or corsets, padded shoulders or hairpieces. Solicitors could handle the transactions. We could be home in the country. Instead we spend boring hours planning for balls—dancing parties, not the fun chase-me kind—and improving Miss Sonia’s appearance. We are not laying a trap, as Miss Sonia so inelegantly puts it; we are kindling a blaze.

  Obviously Ned the butcher’s boy did not generate any warmth. No magic. I myself thought he smelled delightful; it seems Miss Sonia prefers a gentleman to smell of Hungary water or snuff. I admit I have made mistakes before, but he seemed to fit her specifications so well. I guess I was barking up the wrong tree.

  *

  Lady Almeria revived after the Watch left. The already too-long-suffering Marston took charge, clearing the front steps of curious bystanders and the entryway of slack-jawed servants. Next the butler paid off the butcher and saw that the delivery boy was reimbursed for a new pair of breeches, plus a handsome tip for the trouble. The unfortunate animal was remanded to house arrest in Miss Randolph’s room, and young miss, still giggling, set off for her appointment with the dressmaker. Properly escorted, of course. Then, his duties discharged with what dignity befitted a ducal residence, Marston withdrew to the butler’s pantry, firmly locking himself in with a bottle of the late duke’s vintage port, not to reappear until dinner.

  This was not what he was used to, no, not even when Lady Allison, Master Thorndike, and Viscount Harkness, the heir, were young. Lady Atterbury and the late duke—and Marston—agreed that children were best raised in the country, by someone else. That was how the new little duke was being reared, in the country with his mother and an entire army of nursery staff to see that he did not burn down Atterbury Hall. He would seldom be in London to cut up Marston’s peace until he reached his majority. Viscount Harkness did not live long enough to succeed to the title, predeceasing his father due to overindulging in brandy and underestimating a jump. He never got to see the son everyone said was in his image, and Marston was almost hoping he himself wouldn’t be around to see the lad either.

  In all of Marston’s days at Atterbury House, there had only been one ignoble episode, that concerning Miss Allison and her would-be betrothed. The event was of such monumentally vulgar proportions, it was still spoken of at the nearest pub. Now Miss Allison’s daughter was here for just one day, and Marston could never show his face at the Red Stag again.

  *

  Oblivious to Marston’s distress, Miss Sonia was shopping. For once, she was enjoying the
experience. Madame Celeste did not make her feel like a cabbagehead, instead encouraging her—and her father’s remorse-driven generosity—to create a style of her own.

  “I can see that Mademoiselle is not in the usual mode,” Madame understated when her newest customer blew into the shop. Miss Randolph, with tousled tresses, and laughing blue eyes, had instantly pleaded that, if she absolutely had to wear white for her come-out, Madame would please find a way to make it different from every other white debutante gown.

  Sonia had never had so much choice before, and the new styles were looser and more comfortable. Sunny thought she’d feel more herself in them. Madame unerringly brought what was suitable for her coloring and situation, and wooden-faced Bigelow was an unobtrusive guide. “The blue to match the eyes. No frills; we have nothing to hide. Colors are unexceptionable for daytime.”

  Sonia held up a fashion plate of a gown cut daringly low, winking at the assistant who was standing by to record the order. Madame Celeste clucked her tongue and threw her hands in the air, but Bigelow did not fail Sonia. “Haymarket ware.” Sonia and the girl laughed, until Madame frowned at them.

  After Sonia was measured, two ready-made gowns were presented for consideration. “An improvement,” Bigelow decreed, so Miss Randolph was helped into the peach muslin in order to complete her shopping with less embarrassment to her grandmother’s abigail. Best of all, Aimee, the shopgirl, was found to be of a size and shape with Miss Randolph, and was willing to stand in for all but the final fittings. Sonia handed the girl a handsome douceur. “Just please do not use it on so many strawberry tarts that I’ll have to undergo those hours of pinpricks,” she said, laughing.

  “Mais non, mademoiselle, I save for my dot. Better a girl make a good marriage than make a good meal, n’est-ce pas?”

  *

  Further stops saw the crested coach fill up with bonnets and boots, fans and feathers, parasols and petticoats, stockings and…gloves. Sonia still had energy left to visit Gunther’s to see about ices for the ball, and a florist to order the flowers. Bigelow was limp on the facing seat for the ride back to Atterbury House. “Youth” was all she said.