by Joan Smith
Before Prudence could reciprocate for this taunt, a flurry was created around Dammler by the approaching of a little group of ladies who wished to compliment him on Shilla. They hovered just beyond him, waiting for an opportunity to advance. He smiled and beckoned them forward, nodding at their praise. “Ladies, you may stroke me. I am tame,” he told them. “Now before someone has the poor taste to proclaim me a plagiarist, let me announce Dr. Johnson as the source of the bons mots. The male of the species of literary lion doesn’t scratch. We leave that to the females.’”
Prudence had the experience of hearing him verbally stroked while the attention was gradually but surely drawn away from herself. “Shall we run along, Constance?” he asked, when he had finished putting Miss Mallow in her place.
Constance proved recalcitrant. She was torn by the conflicting desires of making off with Dammler and insuring Prudence’s attendance at her next house party at Finefields. One had to have some women, and she preferred they not be attractive enough to rival herself, while yet adding some amusement to the proceedings. Miss Mallow was eminently suitable on both counts. “I’ll be right with you, Dammler. Just a word with Miss Mallow first. You will come to us on that date, Miss Mallow--the weekend of October first?”
“I will be happy to, Lady Malvern, but only providing you promise there will be no other writers present. One hates the prospect of talking shop all weekend. One hopes to meet more interesting people than writers. We are an abominably stupid, dull lot.”
Lady Malvern was by no means slow, and knew very well it was Dammler she was not to ask. She felt she could have him any time, and rashly promised there would be no other writers present.
“In that case I will be charmed to come.”
“And your uncle, too. You will come, Mr. Elmtree?”
“I will be happy to. I’ll bring my paints with me--but I trust you won’t have any other painters there.” This sounded a proper qualification to him, or Prue wouldn’t have said it. Prudence looked at him with surprise. There was nothing Clarence would have liked better than to meet a real artist, and it seemed a pity he had spiked his own gun.
“What a strange party you will find on your hands, Constance,” Dammler laughed, “if every guest must be unique. Only one lady and one gentleman, mind, and the rest to be made up of the other sexes.”
“Hush,” she said to him. “Very well, Mr. Elmtree. You will be the only artist, but I hope you have no objection to Canova, the sculptor. He is already invited. He is doing a statue of me."
“Oh a dago!” Clarence said knowingly. “I will like to meet him. I admire the Italians. Leonardo and Michelangelo, a fine bunch of artists. Ask any of them you like. I will be happy to meet them.”
Prudence’s head sunk on her chest at this absurdity. She sneaked a peek at Dammler to observe how he was taking it. He was preparing some jibe, some setdown. There was an anticipatory smile on his face, and a sparkle in his eyes she could not trust. He just glanced at her, and saw her chagrin, the mute appeal in her eyes.
“Let’s go,” he said to Constance, and they went off together, arm in arm.
It was of course humiliating to see him leave with this acknowledged love goddess, but at least he had held back whatever Parthian shot he had been readying-- she knew it would have been lethal. He was getting himself a little in check. This was madness to spar with him in public; she was bound to come off second best. He had pulled away her admirers in two minutes.
When they went their separate ways home, each had to consider the other’s insults, and found enough to keep their ire at a high pitch. Still, Prudence had found him less cutting than she had feared. At least he had not laid down any ultimatums about herself attending parties. It never even occurred to her that she was the one who had done that. Dammler was relieved that no one had jeered at him about “Guelph.” Society seemed to be taking the thing lightly enough. He wondered if Prudence was actually so short of money she had had to sell the book. He knew she couldn’t afford the wedding gown she had wanted, and that he had wanted for her. It must be the very devil to be so short of funds.
Chapter Eight
The two feuding lovers met again a few nights hence at Lord Petersham’s ball, one of the first of the season, and always one of the best. Everyone was there.
Prudence’s book was still one of the major on-dits, but the suppression of Dammler’s sonnets was beginning to be talked of, too. Murray had delivered the boxes of copies to the new house on Berkeley Square, but there had been no bonfire. Dammler had all the boxes but one carted off to the attics. One sat in the middle of his study, ruining the effect of all the place’s finery. A copy was given to an occasional caller and friend, mostly literary cronies, whom he assured his conscience would view it only as a literary work, with no personal significance. They were all too nice to inquire who had inspired the love poems, and accepted his word that they were to Venus. But when Hettie went along with her largest reticule and absconded with half a dozen copies to distribute to her set, and said quite frankly they were to have been dedicated to his fiancée before they had broken up, there wasn’t much secret left in the matter. Anyone with an ounce of ingenuity had read the book and knew all about it.
Prudence went to the ball with her most favored escort, Uncle Clarence, but neither felt it necessary to waste any time with the other after arriving. Clarence had a dashing matron, a Mrs. Peabody, in his eye. He had read and heard enough to know any artist worth his salt had a mistress, and was eager to acquire one. The one he really wanted was the pretty little actress from Shilla, an out-and-outer, everyone said so, but there was some little trouble in getting ahold of her. She seemed to be living with old Lord Exxon, which was a matter of mystery to Clarence. He assumed they were relations, but the fellow had been pretty huffy when he went to call, and told him Cybele did not drive out with gentlemen. They were keeping the girl wrapped up tight as a nun. A regular prude she must be, and it was odd Exxon let her run around the stage half naked, in diaphanous pants you could see her legs through. Mighty fine legs they were.
Clarence’s courting of Mrs. Peabody left Prudence free to pursue her own ends; the major end she had in mind was to get within earshot of Dammler. She had no real desire to cross swords with him again in public, but she did wish to see how he was behaving. So far as she had seen and heard, he was running after every girl in the city. She found him not difficult to keep in sight. Even when she got stuck in a corner with stuffy old Lord Malvern for half an hour, Dammler came and stood not three yards away from her, turned sideways so that he could have seen her if he had wished, but he didn’t once turn his head toward her.
He was with a Miss Grenfell, a pretty young heiress, blond and petite. She was one of the elect who had been allowed to stroke him at Hettie’s. Dammler’s loud talk was first about her hair. “How attractive to see a blonde with brown eyes. One sees such coloring often in Italy, but in England blue eyes are more common. Too common,” he added.
Prudence’s blue eyes snapped, but as Lord Malvern was telling her about some political business, she could hardly turn the talk around to Lord Liverpool’s eyes.
“Is it true you have written a book of sonnets and decided not to distribute them?” Miss Grenfell asked, smiling happily at her conquest.
“Yes, it is true. Unlike some people, when I write something unworthy of me, I don’t insist on foisting it on the public. Some works are best suppressed.”
“I don’t know how anyone can write poems, and especially such clever ones as you write. I have heard said the sonnets are even better than the others. How I would love to read them.”
“So you shall, but you will have to let me take a copy and read them to you myself. They are not being passed around. You see how cleverly I manage to insinuate myself into your saloon, Miss Grenfell.”
“I’m sure it is an honor, Lord Dammler. But I know ever so many people that have a copy. May I not have one?” She went on to reel off a longish list.
After having told Prudence she had the only copy left, Dammler was discomfited at this. “Will you be home tomorrow morning, Miss Grenfell?”
“Oh, yes! Will you come tomorrow?”
“I’ll try to wait till tomorrow,” he told her, leaning closer to her, and looking into her brown eyes, while trying to see in the mirror across the room whether Prudence was watching. As she seemed to be paying not the slightest heed, he was obliged to turn away from Miss Grenfell and discover his old friend, Lord Malvern, in the corner.
“Ah, Harold! There you are. How do you do? Where is Constance this evening? I hope you have not left your beautiful wife home? You know all we bachelors only come to these do’s in the hopes of having a waltz with Constance.”
“You may be sure she is here. She is off waltzing herself to a shadow with young Fotheringham. Her latest flirt, you must know,” the fond husband said proudly.
“Careful, now, you are making me jealous,” Dammler chided.
“Oh, we are all jealous of her. She is up to anything. I was just telling Miss Mallow how happy we are she is coming to us at Finefields. I am delighted Constance is beginning to ask some pretty young gels to her do’s. She usually asks nothing but old dowds and dowagers, you know.”
“She knows how to pick the proper foils for herself, but when Constance is in the room, no man looks at any other woman."
Prudence sat silent, refusing to rise to any of his jibes. It was Malvern who spoke up again. “Mr. Elmtree, Miss Mallow’s uncle, is to come, too. You would know him, I expect?”
“I have the privilege of his acquaintance. He is an artist, you know.”
“So he tells me. He offered to do me while he is there.”
“How nice. You must be careful his niece does not do you as well, Harold,” he said, smiling.
“Eh? You don’t paint, do you, Miss Mallow?”
“No, I don’t.”
“I was referring to word pictures. Miss Mallow has been known to give us a portrait in prose. Not so well rendered as her uncle’s likenesses, I’m afraid.”
Still Prudence said nothing, though it became harder by the moment. “Canova is to sculpt your wife, I understand,” she said to Malvern, turning her shoulder to Dammler.
“Lucky man,” he said behind her back.
“Yes, he is doing her as Aphrodite, a Greek goddess, I believe.”
“The goddess of love,” Dammler supplied. “I recently dedicated a volume of verses to Venus myself.”
“Oh yes, your sonnets,” Malvern nodded. “Constance has a copy. Very nice.”
“Everyone has a copy. For an undistributed work, they are amazingly widely read,” Prudence volunteered. To Venus, were they? He meant Constance, and he had said they were to her! And he had given Constance a copy, too, after telling her she had the only one.
“Constance has a copy. I gave a few to my very particular friends,” Dammler admitted.
“So Mr. Seville was telling me. He has a copy,” Prudence topped him, knowing how much he loathed Seville.
He glowered. “I believe Hettie filched a few and gave them to her friends. I did not give one to Seville.”
“Nice chap, Seville. He and the baroness are coming to us at Finefields. He will be there when you are, Miss Mallow. You know him I take it?” Malvern asked, in all his naive innocence of the man’s former relationship with her.
“We are old friends. I look forward to having the pleasure of the baroness’s acquaintance,” she replied very civilly.
She noticed Dammler’s shoulders tense, and waited for what outrage he would come out with. “You won’t find his equal elsewhere. Constance need not fear having a duplicate of him on her hands,” was all he said.
“He outclasses us all in gold,” Malvern said, misunderstanding the remark, and assuming it referred to the man’s wealth, one of the few things Malvern knew of him. “We won’t have another baroness in her own right there, either. His wife holds the title herself, quite a rare thing. It was the gold that attracted her to Seville, I expect.”
This was a perfect opportunity for Prudence to remind Dammler that despite his digs she had meant to marry him for money, she had spurned an offer from the golden Seville, sought after by a titled lady. She toyed with the wording of it, but decided in the end to let it pass as it would sound so odd to Malvern. Dammler looked at her, and was surprised at the resignation on her face. Why was she not goading him, reminding him she had rejected Seville. They looked at each other, some question in the air, but Malvern, unaware of it, spoke on.
“Ah, there is Seville now. I’ll just say how do you do to him--remind him he is to come to us.” He arose and walked away, and Dammler had either to go, too, or find himself alone, face to face with Prudence. He regarded her warily, and she looked back with the same careful expression. She was the first to divert her eyes. He took the empty seat beside her.
Dammler had been arguing with himself the past days that he had been too hard on Prudence. She had said she was sorry, and after he had said some pretty vile things to her, too. The book wasn’t really so bad. Everyone was saying the villain was the best character in it. He was tired of making up to girls he didn’t care a peg for, just to make her jealous, and Constance was beginning to take the notion he was serious about her. He had no desire to fall into her clutches, but most of all he missed Prue’s company. Her desk was waiting in the study. For hours a day he sat at his own, pretending to write, but more often than not looking at the empty chair across from him, wishing she were in it.
When at last he spoke, he used an avuncular tone, to show his lessened hostility without giving a hint of any continued passion. “You’re running with a pretty fast crowd, the Malverns.”
“Yes, your old set in fact.”
"I am better able to deal with them.”
“I know it well, but my uncle will be there to protect me.”
“Clarence will be busy painting Harold.”
“That’s a relief.”
It was no relief to Dammler. “Leaving you free to continue your à suivre flirtation with the Nabob.”
“That flirtation was terminated when he got married. Unlike some people, I do not consider other peoples’ spouses fair game.”
“Malvern likes you to make up to his wife--insists on it, in fact.”
“I trust that even in the Malvern ménage adultery is not demanded of unmarried females. I shall be safe enough.”
“You have no conception what goes on there! That is no real marriage between Seville and the baroness, for example. He’ll be hanging out for a girl.”
“You don’t have to feel responsible for me. We’re nothing to each other now. I’m twenty-five years old, and can look after myself."
"Nothing to each other? No residue of hatred and disgust remains?”
“I was speaking for myself. Apparently you feel differently.”
“I do feel differently!”
He wouldn’t be sick with apprehension inside to think of her going to Finefields without him if he didn’t still love her. She gave him a reproachful look, thinking he said he hated her. All his recent behavior supported the idea. “I said I’m sorry! I would undo it if I could, but I can’t.” She arose, close to tears. Allan jumped up after her. “And I must say, Allan, I think you are very childish to carry on as you have been, making fun of me..."
“That’s pretty good, making fun of you! What about what you have done to me!”
“You have performed a miraculous recovery! Don’t let on your heart is broken, and you making up to Lady Malvern and Miss Grenfell and any girl you come across.”
“We were not discussing hearts, only pride,” he answered, greatly relieved that they were fighting, clearing the air to get on with the reconciliation.
“Your pride can stand a few knocks.”
“Now I am proud, as well as a lecher and a plagiarist, am I?”
“Yes, if you weren’t bloated and consumed with pride, you wouldn’t have made such a fuss over my b
ook.”
“I should like to know how it is possible to be both bloated and consumed at the same time,” he said, choosing the least objectionable subject of argument, the semantic one. Such an argument was almost a form of lovemaking between these two bibliophiles, and the one he felt he had the best chance of winning.
“You have consumed it and it bloated you,” she insisted mulishly. She knew less, but was as cagey a ratiocinator as her opponent.
He could hardly suppress a smile. “It’s pointless arguing with you,” he said, but he felt the point was all but gained. He turned away to consider a more conciliating line of talk. His face was stiff with disapproval, but he was happier inside than he’d been in days.
Mr. Seville chose this inauspicious minute to leave Lord Malvern and advance to Prudence. “I hear I will be seeing you at Finefields?” he said to her.
She knew well enough this was a bone in Dammler’s throat, and wished the man at Jericho. “I believe my uncle wishes to go,” she replied.
"Lovely. We’ll get our heads together and talk about old times."
Dammler was pressing his lips with the effort of remaining still. As things had been progressing so satisfactorily between Dammler and herself, Prudence desired to be away from Seville. She made an excuse and left, rather abruptly.
"We are becoming very high and mighty these days," Seville remarked to Dammler, with a disparaging look after her. They had been fighting, the two of them. The romance was off, and Seville said to ingratiate himself with the gentleman, “You were well rid of her. She’d have got you to marry her if she could. Tried it on me, you know. The likes of her--it was not marriage I had in mind, you may be sure. Nor yourself either, I expect, my lord?”
“I beg your pardon?” Dammler asked in a drawl that would have alerted his close friends to disaster. A pulse in his temple beat; he could feel it. He had hated Seville for several months--had always suspected the fellow was up to no good with Prudence, and this was confirmation.