by M C Beaton
“That, too, you must find out for yourself.”
“You do not appear to be well acquainted with your mother,” remarked Penelope.
There was a trace of amusement in her voice, and he looked at her sharply, but her face under the pretty bonnet was demure.
“No, not very well,” he agreed after a pause. “Naturally, I spent my youth with first my nurse and then my tutor. When I grew up, I was away a great deal. My father gave me Baxley Manor and estates in Shropshire, and it is there I made my home. This will be my second Season in London since returning from the wars. My parents are somewhat strangers to me.”
“But even in a great household, the children are brought down in the evenings to join the family; is it not so?”
“Not always. Not in my case. Do not look so sad, Miss Mortimer; I had every comfort and a good upbringing. It is those novels you read which lead you to sentimental thoughts of a mother’s love.”
“It is mine own inclination, sir,” said Penelope tartly, “which leads me to ideas of motherly love. I am convinced I should be quite a doting mother. But as I am not likely to put it to the test, I shall be unable to offer you any proof.”
“Miss Mortimer, with your face and figure, not to mention my mother’s patronage, you will be married before the end of the Season.”
“Not I,” she said calmly. “My mind is quite made up. Her Grace wishes to produce me at the Season because she considers my looks of a high order. She wishes to compete with her friends.”
“You are too harsh,” said Lord Andrew. “You are not the first young miss my parent has sponsored. Certainly the prettiest, but by no means the first. She enjoys helping people in trouble.”
“Highly commendable. Did Her Grace have a protégé last Season?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about her. Was she a success? Did she marry and live happily ever after?”
Again he looked at her sharply, for there had been, he was sure, a definite hint of mockery in her voice, but she turned her beautiful vague eyes to his and gave him a sweet smile.
“No,” he said. “She was a Miss Thornton, a cousin of mine four times removed. Very little dowry and previously accustomed to a modest style of life. She was plain and rather silly. She did not ‘take.’”
“Oh, poor Miss Thornton.”
“I would not pity her. She had a great many airs and graces before the Season was over and bullied the Park Street servants quite dreadfully. Mother sent her packing.”
“At the end of the Season?”
“No, before then. I do not wish to discuss the matter any further.”
Lord Andrew remembered the obnoxious Miss Thornton, whose silly head had been quite turned by the duchess’s favors. She was allowed to do as she pleased, to eat chocolates and read novels most of the day, and to go to balls and parties for most of the night. But the unlovely creature had been an object of pity on the day the duchess became tired of her. He wondered how long it would be before his mother tired of Miss Mortimer.
It took longer to get to the Tower of London than he had expected, for no sooner had Miss Mortimer seen the bulk of St. Paul’s than she demanded to be taken inside. He himself had privately long considered the famous cathedral a depressing barn of a place, but Miss Mortimer dutifully went over it all.
When they left, he suggested they should return home and see the Tower on another day, but Penelope apologized so prettily for having wasted so much time and said that the Tower was so very close that he finally capitulated.
The menagerie was as smelly and depressing as he remembered it to be. He walked away a little and left Penelope to examine the cages.
The cages were not very big, and so Penelope could only dimly make out the animal shapes inside. She was wildly disappointed. She had left her spectacles at home, but even if she had brought them, the stern social laws would have prevented her from putting them on. Then she remembered the quizzing glass the duchess had given her. She put it to one eye, and a lion sprang into view.
A careless keeper who had just fed the animals had left the door of the lion’s cage open. Penelope walked closer and closer, assuming that the closeness of the animal was due to the strong magnification of the glass.
The lion opened its cavernous mouth and let out a warning rumble. But Penelope, with one eye screwed shut and the glass at the other, did not realize she had walked into the cage, and thought herself still on the safe side of the bars.
And that was the interesting scene which met Lord Andrew’s horrified gaze when he turned around.
There was dainty little Miss Mortimer standing over a large lion, holding a quizzing glass, and calmly looking down its throat.
The day had become hazy and golden. The little tableau looked unreal. But he hesitated only a moment.
He was frightened to make a sudden movement for fear of startling the animal, and frightened to call for the keeper, knowing the resultant shouts and screams might make the lion spring.
He walked slowly into the cage, inching toward Penelope.
“Miss Mortimer,” he said in a quiet voice, “do not move suddenly or scream, no matter what happens.”
The lion gave a full-throated roar. Penelope dropped her quizzing glass in fright and realized the lion was right at her feet, for that animal blur of hair and teeth must be the lion.
Lord Andrew put a strong arm around her waist, lifted her up in his arms, and began to back away. The lion, made sleepy by food, began to follow them slowly.
“Good God,” muttered Lord Andrew. “The beast is going to follow us across London.”
A startled cry from the keeper at the other end of the row of cages nearly made him drop Penelope. He darted backwards to safety and slammed the door of the cage shut.
“What were you doin’ of?” demanded the red-faced keeper, coming up to them. “Them hanimals ain’t for playin’ with. You Peep-o-Day boys is all the same.”
“It is your own cursed carelessness in leaving the cage door open which has brought about this folly,” said Lord Andrew.
He turned and marched away with Penelope still in his arms.
“You can put me down now,” said Penelope.
He set her on her feet and glared down at her. “How could you be so stupid?” he raged. “What possessed you? Why walk straight into the lion’s cage?”
It somehow did not dawn on him that Penelope was longsighted. Practically every member of the ton carried a quizzing glass. The use of it was an art in itself. Many of them were made of plain glass.
Penelope opened her mouth to confess to her longsightedness. But her mother and father had considered it a terrible defect in a lady and had trained her to conceal it on all occasions and never to be seen with spectacles on. She had not troubled to keep up their standards after her father died, but all the stories she had heard of gentlemen taking an acute dislike to longsighted ladies came back into her mind. Normally sensible, Penelope was made silly by a sudden desire not to appear ugly in Lord Andrew’s eyes.
“I am sorry,” she said, hanging her head. “I have never seen a lion before, and I was so fascinated, I just kept walking closer and closer.”
“If you ladies would stop playing around with those silly quizzing glasses, you might see where you are going,” said Lord Andrew, glaring at the top of her bent head.
“I have apologized,” said Penelope huffily. “The least you can do is accept the apology.”
“Very well,” he said. “Now may I take you home before you get up to any more mischief?”
Penelope tried to start up a conversation on the road back, but Lord Andrew only replied in monosyllables, and at last she fell silent. Lord Andrew was rapidly coming to the conclusion that Miss Mortimer was a trifle simple. He wondered whether she was a result of inbreeding. The fright he had received on seeing her peering down the lion’s throat was still with him, and he blamed her bitterly for that fright.
When they arrived in Park Street, he made Penelope a stiff
bow and went in search of his mother. She was in the drawing room, studying fashion plates and swatches of cloth.
“Oh, Andrew, you are back,” said the duchess amiably. “Tell me what you think of this pink muslin for Miss Mortimer. White is so insipid.”
“Mama,” he said patiently, “do not concern yourself further with choosing a wardrobe for Miss Mortimer. She is leaving.” He crisply outlined the events of the afternoon. The duchess had deliberately put Penelope’s longsightedness out of her mind. There should be no flaw in her latest interest.
“I am sure you exaggerate,” she said mildly, and fell to studying the pages of the fashion magazine on her lap.
He took the magazine away from her and sat down opposite. “You must be guided by me,” he said seriously. “I agree that Miss Mortimer is vastly pretty. But she is not of our rank. She is only the daughter of a country squire and cannot hope to marry above her station. She is alarmingly lacking in wit.”
The duchess’s well-corseted bosom swelled dangerously. “She is not going anywhere,” she said harshly. “Go away, and do not trouble me on this matter again.”
“Mama…”
“You don’t love me,” cried the duchess. “You never have! You never have had the least spark of feeling. You do not stay here out of any filial warmth but because it suits your pocket not to have an establishment of your own. Ah, your indifference strikes sharp knives into my maternal bosom!”
Lord Andrew turned red. “There has never been any closeness between us,” he said. “I barely know my parents, and it is not of my doing.”
The duchess held a vinaigrette to her nose and took a noisy sniff at its contents.
“It was all your own doing, not mine, Andrew. All your love was for that tutor of yours, Blackwell.”
“May I point out that when Mr. Blackwell wrote to you from Oxford University and suggested I spend a year at home before going on the Grand Tour, you wrote in reply you could not be troubled.”
“That’s right, it’s all my fault!” screamed the duchess. “You unnatural and unfeeling child. Oh, my heart.” She slapped her hand somewhere in the region of her heart, and her corsets let out a creak of protest. She swayed in her chair. “Water,” she whispered.
Thoroughly alarmed, Lord Andrew rang the bell, and when Perkins, the maid, promptly answered it, he told her to see to her mistress.
“Tell him to go away,” moaned the duchess faintly. Perkins looked helplessly at Lord Andrew, who hesitated only a moment before leaving the room.
When the door closed behind him, the duchess straightened up and said briskly, “Do not fuss, Perkins. Go and fetch Miss Mortimer. I wish to show her this vastly fetching creation of pink muslin with gold frogs.”
Chapter Three
The sad fact was that Miss Ann Worthy was in the same state as a schoolboy who, having strained every brain cell to pass a difficult exam, and having succeeded, abandons all further academic effort.
For Miss Worthy had worked long and hard to bring Lord Andrew up to the mark. She had diligently studied reports of the war and of politics in the newspapers, although she was completely uninterested in either. She had paid several guineas of her pin money to a Latin scholar to write a little Latin poem for her and coach her in pronunciation so that she could startle the handsome lord with her erudition and wit. Although she preferred to wear all the latest extravagances of dress from damped and near-transparent muslin to headdresses of fifteen feathers all dyed different colors, she had, on the advice of a top dressmaker, modified her dress to suit her years and status, although she felt sure it did not become her in the least. But Lord Andrew, she knew, was a martinet with very precise ideas of what ladies should wear and how ladies should behave. She had made a study of him before she had actually been introduced to him.
Now the “exams” were over. She had won her lord. An engagement between two such well-bred members of society was just about as binding as a wedding.
Flushed with triumph and being possessed of a good deal of personal vanity, Miss Worthy quite forgot that she had not appeared to be very attractive to men before her engagement and became convinced she was a diamond of the first water.
The weather, which had turned fine just after Miss Mortimer’s arrival in town, stayed that way. London was a pretty sight with all the fine clothes and jewelry on show and windows of ballrooms open to let in the balmy air.
While Penelope Mortimer endured being pinned and fitted for gown after gown, Lord Andrew squired his fiancée to various events. He considered her dress was becoming most unflattering but felt it impolite to say so. In the past, when a lady’s attire or manner had displeased him, he had simply made a point of steering away from her. But he was engaged to Miss Worthy, and so he decided to indulge her odd tastes until they were married, by which time she would have promised before God and man to obey him.
It was the way she had begun to ogle other men and then claim that they were smitten with her that grated more than anything else.
At the opera ball or at Almack’s Assembly rooms she would flash bold glances in the direction of some newcomer to society and then whisper to Lord Andrew, “Only see how that dreadful man stares at me! I wish he would not. I declare the gentlemen never realize how their bold looks terrify us weak females so!”
Had Lord Andrew had any high opinion of women, then a week of this would have been enough to give him a violent disgust of his fiancée, but he rated the fair sex as low, weak-minded, clinging creatures who only needed a firm hand.
But no doubt had Miss Worthy gone on behaving in this way for much longer, then even Lord Andrew might have seriously begun to consider ways to break the engagement. Help was to come from an unexpected quarter. After a week, Penelope’s new gowns, slaved over into the night by a row of seamstresses, were ready, and she made her debut. Penelope Mortimer was the one who was going to send Miss Worthy back to her studies.
Lord Andrew had considered removing himself from his parents’ home, for his mother’s odd behavior had given him a resentment of her which clung in his mind like a burr. But for all her faults, the duchess knew how to run a beautiful, charming home, and so he was reluctant to leave, particularly as accommodation was hard to find at any price once the Season had begun.
The duchess was expert at flower arrangements and at the clever use of colors and fabrics. Having no feeling for servants at all, she treated them like pieces of machinery and saw that they were well oiled with plenty of good food and were kept in tiptop running condition.
And so he continued to stay. He did not see Penelope at all during that week after the disastrous visit to the Tower of London.
Then his mother summoned him. He eyed her rather warily now, hoping she would not do any of those strange things like scream at him or faint.
“Andrew,” said the duchess, “tonight is Penelope’s debut.”
He mentally checked his own social calendar. “The Dempseys’ ball, I presume?”
“Yes. You attend, of course. Shall you be fetching Miss Worthy?”
“Not tonight. Miss Worthy said she might be late, and I agreed to meet her there.”
“Good. In that case little Penelope and myself will be glad of your escort.”
“So long as you do not expect me to dance attendance on Miss Mortimer once we are there.”
“Well, you know, Andrew, I do think you might stand up with her for two dances. Your engagement has been announced in the newspapers, and so everyone knows you are shackled to Miss Worthy.”
“Are you sure,” said Lord Andrew, “that Miss Mortimer knows how to go on in society? Has she had any training?”
“She does not need any. She looks so beautiful.”
Lord Andrew only remembered Penelope as being pretty.
“I hope,” he said cautiously, “that you are not going to force me to entertain Miss Mortimer during the Season?”
“No. After tonight she will have beaux aplenty and will have no need of you.”
&nbs
p; Lord Andrew took particular pains over his dress that evening. He felt he was putting on armor to protect him from the social gaffes he felt sure Miss Mortimer was bound to commit. His black hair was brushed and pomaded until it shone with blue lights. The white sculpture of his cravat rose above the trim line of a green and gold striped waistcoat. His coat of raven black and his black silk knee breeches and white stockings with gold clocks all appeared molded to his tall, athletic body.
He dabbed some perfume behind his ears, picked up his bicorne, his gloves, and his fan, and made his way downstairs, grateful that the fashion for men carrying enormous muffs had been “exploded”—the cant for out of fashion.
He had drunk several glasses of wine before his mother creaked into the drawing room over an hour late, her little crumpled face flushed with a high color caused by the wicked constriction of her corsets. She looked like one of those nests of Russian wooden dolls where the head of one has been removed, leaving the thick outer body of the first doll with the smaller head of the second doll poking out of it.