“No, but you would have if you’d thought of them!” snapped Lady Easterling, clutching him all the tighter. “It is no wonder I am in a perfectly morbid state. I do not scruple to tell you, sir, that I am very tired of being scolded and rebuked and gifted with unflattering opinions of myself — to say nothing of being sermonized and catechized for hours on your behalf.”
“On my behalf?” echoed Lord Carlin, in whose entire history there was nothing that qualified him to be the subject of sermons so obviously adverse. “What are you talking about?”
“Boring on about, you mean!” Lady Easterling responded bitterly. “Let us have the word with no bark upon it, pray! You think my conduct is shockingly irregular. No doubt you also think I am not fit for association with respectable people, like Georgiana said! Because she warned me that you were deuced high in the instep and above my touch. But I didn’t believe her! I thought we should deal delightfully! And Georgiana is such an old gorgon that she will never let me hear the end of it.”
What had given Lady Easterling the notion that she was in his style. Lord Carlin had not the most distant guess. He opened his mouth to voice that query, rather more tactfully phrased. Lady Easterling forestalled him by stamping her dainty foot once more.
“Don’t interrupt!” she cried. “Everyone has been ripping up at me in the most monstrous way, and this time I mean to have my say. To own the truth, I suppose I have behaved a little badly — but I am what I am, and I don’t want to be anything else, though were someone to ask me nicely, I might make a push. However, no one has asked me nicely, excepting Sara, and she can’t care a button for my behavior when she’s on the downward path to perdition herself! Poor thing! Not that you are interested in my poor Sara, Lord Carlin, because you will think her also beneath your regard. By Jove, I am very disappointed to discover that one of the highest-bred men in England is at heart nothing but a coxcomb!”
A coxcomb? So stunned was Lord Carlin by this accusation that he offered no defense.
“And I had thought you at home to a peg!” Lady Easterling continued morosely. “Which only proves one cannot trust impressions founded on mere appearance! Because you ain’t the least bit très sympathique, and you are much too starched-up to do anything à la folie! Only the most biddable of females will do for you, one who walks in too much awe of you ever to offer an opposing viewpoint, and one who is too prim and proper ever to cause you a moment’s disquiet. Well, I hope you may discover the most reserved, demure, decorous creature in existence, because nothing less will do for you — and I’ll lay a monkey she’ll bore you to death!”
Nor had this far-from-peaceful interlude banished Lord Carlin’s impulse to wreak physical mayhem upon the fair person of his personal albatross. “Depend upon it, I shall be forced to marry Arthur!” that damsel mourned, raising the hand that did not clutch Kit languidly to her brow. “He can’t marry poor Sara any more than Jevon could, because she don’t have a dowry. Oh, was there ever such a horrid coil?”
Lord Carlin thought there must not have been. He had no knowledge of the mysterious Arthur, but concluded this unknown gentleman was also smitten with Jevon’s opera dancer, Sara by name. That Lady Easterling spoke of so common a female with such familiarity, that she could even for an instant condone an alliance between her brother and a woman who trod the boards, confirmed his opinion of her essential bird-wittedness. Happily, this bothersome chit was not his responsibility. Frantically, he cast about in his mind for means by which he might remove himself posthaste from her presence. As if she had access to his very thoughts, Lady Easterling cast herself weeping upon his chest.
Lord Carlin was no pigeon for any lady’s plucking, and had no intention of being surprised in a compromising position, and therefore grasped Lady Easterling by her shoulders and did in fact shake her until the teeth rattled in her head. “Jupiter!” gasped Jaisy.
“Oh, the deuce!” Lord Carlin released his victim with the alacrity more usually accorded to hot bricks. “I beg your pardon, Lady Easterling.”
“To blazes with my pardon!” responded her ladyship furiously. “Aye, and to you yourself! I hope I may never again set eyes on you, sir! Because to do so must remind me that he who I thought a regular out-and-outer was in truth a curst loose-screw!”
Once more Lord Carlin offered no defense; he dared not, lest further exposure to her ladyship drive him to additional assault. Without another word, he turned and stalked toward the door. Halfway across the room, a noise caught his attention. Had Lady Easterling caught up some sharp item, did she prepare even then to hurl some lethal missile at his unprotected back? Cautiously, he peered over his shoulder. Lady Easterling had flung herself face down on the crocodile-shaped couch, head buried in her arms, with every appearance of a damsel prepared to sob out her heart.
Only the most callous of gentlemen could have departed at that point, cruelly abandoning a lady on the verge of expiring of love on his account. Lord Carlin retraced his steps, dropped down on one knee by the couch, touched Jaisy’s shoulder. “I beg you, do not take on in this manner!” he soothed. “It is not the end of the world, you know, just because I have intimated that we should not suit. You are a well-enough young woman. Doubtless there will be other gentlemen who like you very well.”
In defense of what Lady Easterling did next, it must be pointed out that she was a damsel very much accustomed to being admired, and one who had recently suffered a very great disillusionment, and had encountered not one but two gentlemen who had been sent into the doldrums by the notion of marriage with herself. As Lord Carlin spoke, she raised herself up on an elbow, then into a sitting position, meanwhile staring into his face.
“Upon my word as a gentleman!” Lord Carlin added kindly.
“The devil fly away with you!” responded Lady Easterling, and promptly boxed his ears.
Fifteen
* * *
Mr. Rutherford, soon thereafter, embarked upon a shopping expedition of his own, and ventured forth to the shop of the most famous of all the London bootmakers, Hoby, located on the corner of Piccadilly and St. James’s. Hoby himself greeted Mr. Rutherford, and very amiably, which was not the case with every customer who entered the shop. Several of Jevon’s contemporaries had been given cause to complain about Hoby’s high opinion of himself. He was affable enough this morning, and asked Mr. Rutherford’s opinion of the smart black tilbury and frisky black horse which customarily conveyed him about the metropolis, and confided that he intended to employ his leisure time preaching in a Methodist church in Islington. These amenities concluded, Hoby himself assisted Mr. Rutherford in selecting a pair of boots to replace those ravaged by his aunt’s ill-tempered Pekinese.
This errand completed, Mr. Rutherford next repaired to Lock the hatter’s at No. 6 St. James’s, on a similar mission. All hats were made to measure at Lock’s, and of the finest materials, from curly-brimmed beavers to glossy black top hats to the chapeau bras worn by gentlemen in the evening or, alternately, carried folded up under their arms. Lord Nelson’s last cocked hat, complete with a green shade to cover his blind eye, had come from Lock’s, as did the plumed gold-laced shakos worn by officers of the Hussars and Dragoons. Having arranged to replace the item of headware to which Confucious had taken exception, Mr. Rutherford then stepped once more out into the street and paused, undecided as to what next he should do with his day. Normally, he would have remedied this unusual indecision with a visit to his clubs, there to watch contemporaries going down heavily at hazard, or exchange new gossip, or inspect the latest calling cards left by dashers of the pavé on the board in the lobby. But this was no normal day, and Mr. Rutherford had no desire whatsoever to while away the time in company with a particular contemporary who doubtless even then lay in wait for him at White’s.
All was fair in love and war, Mr. Rutherford consoled himself, tucking his handsome chin into his impeccable cravat in reaction to the cold outside air. Sacrifices must be made in either endeavor. To ease his Sara’s stony
pathway, Jevon was prepared to offer up — nay, had offered up — Lord Carlin like a sacrificial lamb. The result of that endeavor, Jevon did not yet know, but he imagined Jaisy must be in alt, imagining that Lord Carlin’s visit indicated a distinguishing preference. And why should Jaisy not have Carlin? Jevon asked himself. The notion, at first startling, had grown on him. Lord Carlin kept prosing on about how he must take a wife, did he not? Then let him take Jaisy! Immensely pleased with this resolution, and not at all disturbed by the minor problem that the two parties most concerned were, on the face of things, highly incompatible, Mr. Rutherford began to whistle a naughty little tune that had been taught him by a pretty little opera dancer employed at Drury Lane.
Here, perhaps, a few words concerning opera dancers might be timely, lest the reader nourish an undeservedly — at least in this instance — unseemly opinion of Mr. Rutherford’s character. Jevon understood the workings of the female mind excellently well, as has elsewhere been stated. Among the minds best understood by him were those of Lady Blackwood and Miss Valentine. With quite diabolical cunning he had introduced the opera dancer into the situation to throw them both off the scent. Georgiana would be deluded by this shapely red herring into concluding that his sentiments regarding Miss Valentine were no warmer than casual friendship. As for Miss Valentine herself, for whom Jevon’s sentiments were positively torrid — well, why Jevon should wish his beloved to think he hankered after someone else is a peace of typically masculine wrong-headedness, which it must be left to Jevon to explain, because the author cannot.
At all events, as he contemplated his harum-scarum sister’s alliance with a gentleman legendarily high in the instep, Mr. Rutherford strolled along St. James’s. It was a fairly pleasant morning, at least in comparison with other recent mornings; feeble sunshine broke sporadically through the city’s miasma of smoky soothy mist. The air remained cold.
The streets were crowded, despite the chilly temperatures, with the ubiquitous street-sellers found everywhere in London. Had he been so inclined, Mr. Rutherford could have purchased rat-traps, baskets, brick dust for cleaning knives; he might have had a chair mended or read a newssheet; he might have munched upon hot apples and crumpets and watercress. None of these pastimes having tempted him, Jevon instead passed some few moments in observation of a large cage on a barrow, which contained two dogs and a couple of cats and some mice, a monkey and three birds, all of which consorted together congenially and performed several tricks, and which was advertised in a stentorian fashion by its keeper as “The Happy Family.”
Thought of families recalled to Jevon his own, and the much less congenial atmosphere in Queen Anne Street. He had deliberately avoided Blackwood House since his last encounter with his beloved Sara in the gardens there, lest he embarrass her by his presence. For Jevon, stolen kisses were no cause for loss of countenance; but his ladylove was a great deal less blasé. And so she should be! Not that his own little peccadilloes had ever signified a straw. With that viewpoint, of course, Jevon would not acquaint his Sara, any more than he would make her a candid confession of his sentiments, receipt of which would doubtless result in her thinking he was cutting a wheedle with herself his dupe. Deuced ticklish, decided Jevon, was this pursuit of romance, a quality which had played scant part in his previous affaires. But his Sara obviously wanted to be courted in the proper manner, and Jevon would oblige her as best he was able, even if it was a pastime no less difficult than walking on eggs.
All the same, he thought he might now safely return to Blackwood House without anyone getting the wind up, and he had the perfect excuse to seek out Miss Valentine. She would be delighted with his solution, he felt certain; and he would subtly reintroduce the subject of trysts once his baggage of a sister was safely disposed. In point of fact, Sara might experience not only delight but also gratitude as a result of his enterprise. It was as Mr. Rutherford pondered the potential ways in which his ladylove might express her delighted gratitude — reflections which brought a blissful expression to his handsome face — that he espied the very source of his imaginings. He stared, then blinked, then stared again. But she looked horrified; why was that? And then he became aware of the carriage bearing down upon him, and hastily jumped back.
“Gracious God, Jevon!” exclaimed Miss Valentine, reaching his side and assisting him to rise. “Whatever were you thinking of? You might have been killed!”
So he might, and the object of his affections sounded a great deal less anguished than amused. Feeling a trifle out of sorts, Jevon brushed damp dirt from his clothing. He could hardly inform Sara that she had been the object of his rather improper fantasies. Besides, a lady who would giggle at his discomfort didn’t deserve to be paid compliments. All the same, he must say something. Jevon opened his mouth and sneezed.
“Goodness!” Miss Valentine fished in her reticule for a handkerchief. “You seem to be in a very bad way, Jevon! I do hope it isn’t result of — that is, the garden was — and you did not wear your jacket — How dare you laugh at me, you wretched man? I am sure if you go out clad in just your shirtsleeves in this weather, you deserve to catch your death of cold!”
“If I went out in just my shirtsleeves, Sara, I should deserve to catch a great deal more!” retorted Mr. Rutherford, who had recovered his customary sang-froid, and was deriving infinite enjoyment from his companion’s blushes. “It is hardly kind of you to wish for my demise, especially when I have gone to such lengths to place myself in your good graces — especially when I have been so ill!”
“I do not wish anything of the sort!” Miss Valentine responded, with an attempt at careless camaraderie that was woefully inept. “And I am very sorry that you have not been feeling quite the thing.”
“So you should be!” Jevon offered her his arm. “It was entirely your fault.”
“Oh!” Sara’s cheeks blushed rosier still. “How very ungallant of you to say so!”
For a gentleman determined to proceed with caution, Mr. Rutherford was extremely rash, in demonstration of which folly he bent his head closer to his companion’s and fondly said: “My darling Sara, you are a widgeon! If you had not gone into the garden I would not have followed you there; and if I had not followed you, I would not have found so excellent a reason to tarry; and if I had not thusly tarried, I would not have taken this accursed head cold, which makes it impossible to pursue those matters which I would most prefer without looking an absolute Bedlamite!” In proof of which, he sneezed. Reluctantly, Miss Valentine smiled. His carefully-laid-out plans of attack and retreat flew straight out of Jevon’s head. “Sara!” he murmured huskily.
“I say! Miss Valentine!” came another voice, and Sara turned away from Jevon with what he could only think an expression of relief. Approaching them, trying unsuccessfully to look languid, was a young man rigged out in very remarkable attire, most unexceptionable among which items were a greatcoat with so many capes it made him look like an ambulating evergreen, and yellow stockings with violet clocks.
“Have you been previously presented?” inquired Miss Valentine, flustered. “I think you must be distant connections of some sort. Mr. Rutherford is Lady Easterling’s brother, Arthur.”
Arthur, was it? At this indication of how friendly his beloved had grown with a young man also residing under Lady Blackwood’s roof, Mr. Rutherford almost snarled. He was not alone in this sentiment: Confucious, bundled up in that abominable coat and mittens, had all this time been growling at Jevon from his position at Sara’s feet. Nor did Arthur appear any more kindly disposed toward his new found relative. “Lady Easterling!” he echoed bitterly. “If she is your sister, sir, I must take leave to tell you that you should have turned her over your knee a long time ago!” Irritably, Jevon eyed this country bumpkin who stood on such easy terms with his Sara, and informed him that he was not in the habit of turning ladies over his knee.
Hastily, before Jevon could inform them just what it was his habit to do with ladies, a matter about which she herself possessed n
o little curiosity, Miss Valentine intervened. “Carlin called at Blackwood House yesterday,” she said, “and Jaisy managed to speak with him privately.”
“Did she, the clever minx?” inquired Jevon, into Miss Valentine’s handkerchief. “I anticipated something of the sort, when I persuaded him to call.”
“You arranged it?” Sara looked startled. “How?”
Jevon shrugged. “A small matter of a wager. It doesn’t signify. But I’ll tell you what does: Carlin keeps saying he must marry, but can’t settle on a wife. Why shouldn’t he take Jaisy since her heart’s set on him?”
So many objections reared their heads in response to his question that brief silence — save for Confucious’s continuous growling, aimed impartially at both of Miss Valentine’s companions — reigned. “I wish she would have him!” Arthur stated bluntly. “Or that he’d have her! Because the more I see of Lady Easterling the less I want to be leg-shackled to her!”
This country bumpkin married to his sister? Jevon frowned. Then it occurred to him that did Jaisy indeed marry Arthur Kingscote, he would be obliged to see a great deal of a young man to whom he’d taken an instant dislike. For all that, marriage with Jaisy was preferable to having the young cawker dangling after Sara, as his inclination seemed. Jevon’s golden brows twisted with perplexity.
As did Miss Valentine’s heartstrings twist in sympathy. Scant wonder if Jevon found so convoluted a situation difficult to comprehend. “Georgiana means Jaisy for Arthur,” she explained. “And you know that Georgiana always has her way. As for Carlin, Jaisy bade him go to the devil and for good measure boxed his ears. I gather he had accused her of boldness or something of that nature, and she worked herself up into a dreadful frenzy and said a great many uncharitable things. Georgiana is absolutely livid — not that Jaisy sent Carlin off with a flea in his ear, which suits Georgiana very well; but that Jaisy should have been so heedless of convention as to engage in a tête-à-tête.” Recalling her own similar misbehavior, she winced. It was left to Arthur to complete the explanation, and this he did with a great many references to harebrained females who at the slightest provocations flew up into the boughs.
Fair Fatality Page 13