Lace for Milady
Page 19
“Really, Slack, you two were engaged first. Prissie gave you the diamond on your birthday. I see the whole thing crumbling before my eyes. I am to be left in the lurch,” he declared. “I’ll sue you both for breach of promise.”
Slack laughed merrily, for of course she never had the least thought of deserting us but only felt it polite to make the gesture. "I begin to think the pair of you need a nanny,” she said.
"We do!” Burne assured her. "And look how convenient my library will be for you. I’ll get my books back. We will have the cosiest menage à trois outside of Devonshire House.”
"I'll think about it,” Slack condescended, but there was not a vestige of doubt in any of our minds. The thing was settled.
"Well, darlings, I’m off,” Burne said. "I'll be back in three days and expect my brides to be ready for me. I’ll see my chaplain before I go. If you want to start removing your things to Belview while I’m gone, just send a note over. I’ll speak to my people to help you. Now, have we forgotten anything? You’ll see to the nailing down of the bench, Slack? And if you hear any merriment below, remember how the smuggling community is to be dealt with. Sit on the bench, my darlings!”
He blew us a kiss and left.
* * *
Chapter 15
October 31, 1813
Napoleon was defeated at Leipzig on October 19 and has retired into Paris. With the armies of the present coalition hounding him, it is unnecessary for Burne to continue his little trips. Indeed he says even Cousin Louie no longer goes, but I notice Officer Smith continues to keep a close eye on Nancy-Jane, and our own patrols continue to roam the coast, flashing a signal from the best spot for landing. Nor do I perceive any shortage of brandy in Burne’s decanter, which he uses only for medicinal purposes, of course! I am forced to the conclusion that despite his hardy appearance he has some chronic ailment, for the level goes down and up regularly. Slack is no help in controlling his intake. She has succumbed completely to his blandishments and his library (and dried cherries), but I do not mean to imply he has become a drunkard. That refinement is lacking.
He speaks of setting up his museum, and speaks, too, of taking us through the tunnel to view the ruins, but has not done either. One afternoon while he was at the village on business, Slack and I went to Seaview and pried up the lid of the parson’s bench, but the door at the bottom of the stairs was bolted, so we had to go to the meadow and eventually found the entrance from the ruined chapel. It was well concealed behind bushes and piles of stone, but we discovered it and entered it with torches and examined the one room. There was little enough to see I thought, but Slack is itching to return and have another try at discovering the artist who executed the mural. He was no Michelangelo, I’ll say that. There was no mosaic floor under the ruined chapel at all. That was just one more lie. Seaview stands empty awaiting a nice deaf couple who will not be bothered by rattling grates. It is not to be used for the museum, but a building is to be erected in Pevensey. My husband tells me that as it is my “nagging” that caused this decision, I will be expected to dip heavily into Mr. Higgins’s money to help defray the cost. I knew how it would be.
~ ~ ~
Our journey to Bath draws close. We have already had one short one to Londinium, just the two of us. If the trip to Bath is anything like it, it will be horrid. You will have noticed I said “Londinium.” No, I have not fallen into the revolting habit of using the names of yore. We didn’t see a thing of London. We tramped through basements of shops and even private dwellings to see walls and pavements of Londinium, and also drove to out-of-the-way spots high up on hills to admire the old city walls. It was Londinium we visited, and I am instituting a campaign to return in the spring to attend some concerts and plays and balls. A reference to Lady Inglewood and George I find useful in this scheme. I have only to hint she would be happy to accompany her “dear niece, the Duchess” as she calls me now, if my husband is too engaged, and Burne will suddenly find that he can manage “a week or two” for the enterprise. We will stay a month, however.
For our honeymoon to Bath, Slack is fashioning herself a bathing robe and expresses the intention of placing her feet where those thousands of Roman feet have trod at the diving stone. I trust she won’t slip and fall in, for she can’t swim a stroke. She is almost totally out of black these days. Her beau prefers his ladies in colours. She tells me I needn’t tease her, for I am practically out of my gowns altogether. This is an ill-natured reference to the fact that I have two evening gowns that show my shoulders and arms, but I am not totally depraved. I usually wear my white shawl, even when Burne stokes up the fire so that I nearly melt. He claims he still couldn’t swear I have a waist.
Our wedding was carried out with the utmost secrecy, as though it were a crime. Only Lady Inglewood and George were there on my side, both with faces as long as though it were a funeral they were attending. The other smuggler in my husband’s family, Lord Tremaine, and his wife came from Dover, but Louie was too lazy to come. He calls on us occasionally, and I like him excessively. In fact, he has become my beau, as Clavering is Slack’s. I tell Burne he must not be jealous since I owe both my life and my virtue to Louie’s quick thinking.
Under Louie’s rough exterior there lurks the soul of a pet kitten. He is gentle and bashful. I mean to find him a bride and reform him. My own groom is sufficiently docile that I am ready to bear-lead his cousin, as well. I received from London a mount slightly less incorrigible than Juliette, by no means tame. Lady lng got Juliette back from Clavering by some unknown means, by which I mean an unknown price. She is looking very smug, and I think she got it without any expense at all. She gave us what purports to be her late husband’s Roman collection for a wedding gift—two books and a box of bent coins and “artifacts.” We have been nearly totally relieved of George’s visits. He is dangling after some girl in the village who seems much inclined to encourage him. The girl is not so blue-blooded as Lady Ing could like, but the necessary tinge of gold is strong, and my aunt seems resigned to the match.
I have come to the end of my story, or the end of writing it, in any case. I do not consider life over, nor its excitement likely to diminish. We have as yet contrived no incipient increase in the population, but it is early days yet for that. I am very busy being the mistress of a large home, head of half a dozen local charities, matchmaker, and wife. It has been suggested to me by Clavering that I show a quite amazing disregard for my priorities. Wife should come first, or in any case not last. I soothe him by saying I leave the best for the last, but he is not convinced and wonders if we are not blood relations in some fashion, since I seem to be something of an eel myself. There—down to seven I's in my last paragraph, and I hope less of an egotist than when I (nine) began.
About the Author
Joan Smith is a graduate of Queen's University in Kingston, Ontario, and the Ontario College of Education. She has taught French and English in high school and English in college. When she began writing, her interest in Jane Austen and Lord Byron led to her first choice of genre, the Regency, which she especially liked for its wit and humor.
She is the author of over a hundred books, including Regencies, many with a background of mystery, for Fawcett and Walker, contemporary mysteries for Berkley, historical mysteries for Fawcett and St. Martin's, romances for Silhouette, along with a few historicals and gothics. She has had books in the Doubleday Book Club and the Literary Guild, had one book condensed in a magazine, and has been on Walden's Bestseller list.
Her favorite travel destination is England, where she researches her books. Her hobbies are gardening, painting, sculpture and reading. She is married and has three children. A prolific writer, she is currently working on Regencies and various mysteries at her home in Georgetown, Ontario.
Publishing Information
Copyright © 1980 by Joan Smith
Originally published by Walker and Company in hardcover, Fawcett Coventry Books in paperback
Electronica
lly published in 2002 by Belgrave House
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No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.