by Joan Smith
She was replaced by a bevy of anxious beauties in the following season. There were the Misses Twitchwell, one blonde, one redhead, who refused to take offence at his never being able to tell them apart. When this joke palled on him, they were superseded by Miss Legg, famous for her killing eyes that slew a score of suitors a week. But Clare sustained no mortal wound. At a month's end he cast her off, and when she persisted in hounding him, he took to addressing her as Miss Arm, Miss Foot, or any other part of the anatomy that occurred to him.
It was reported by Miss Prattle that His Grace, the D—e of C——-e, would not be Legg-shackled after all and was once more running in the London Open, as she had dubbed the marriage race. This and other interesting morsels were to be read in her gossip column entitled ‘Miss Prattle Says.’ It was to the third page of the Morning Observer that all members of the ton turned while having their morning chocolate, to see what scandalous and near-libelous gossip they might pick up from Miss Prattle to enliven their daily chatter. For three seasons now she had reigned supreme as the Queen of Gossip, and to add mystery to mystique, she was still unknown after all that time, in spite of strenuous efforts to learn her identity. Certainly a member of the very inner circle of society, for she knew everyone and everything. During her first year of writing, she had hit on Clare as her whipping boy. He exemplified all that she deplored—vanity, arrogance, conspicuous display of wealth, wasting of time and talents. To this were added two attributes that Thorndyke liked, too: He never threatened to sue, as some did, nor did he ever storm into the office demanding to know who Miss Prattle was; and his name was of lively interest to his readers. Miss Prattle received every encouragement to say what she pleased about him.
During the time the Twitchwells were after Clare, his intimates teased him about being color-blind, because of his inability to distinguish red hair from blonde. Miss Prattle also took him to task, but she avoided the obvious and hinted instead that it was his color blindness that had led him to appear on the strut in a waistcoat no gentleman of fashion would be caught dead in, and added that it might also account for his book at Tatt's being in the red.
“Damme, I've missed settling up day at Tatt's,” Clare said when Miss Twitchwell read the article to him.
“Yes, but it is really a dig at you for not being able to tell me and Alice apart. Everyone says so."
“And one may always count on you to belabor the obvious, Lady ... Alice, is it?"
“No, I'm Mary,” she told him, still smiling.
“And quite contrary,” he said, returning her smile.
Clare shrugged his elegant shoulders when Miss Prattle ticked him off for betting five hundred pounds that Miss Altmire would not be allowed a voucher to Almack's, and agreed that he ought to have made it a thousand, for it was a dead certainty no mere Cit's daughter would get her toe into the holy of holies. That she had used his name as a reference to Sally Jersey had goaded him into making the bet, but Miss Prattle had slipped up on that piece of business.
His failure to appear at a garden party tossed at Clare Palace for his friends resulted in the title, “The Great Absent One,” but he merely quirked an eyebrow and said, “Damme, my barber was down with the quinsy; it would have been an insult to attend my own party unshaven.” Miss Prattle retaliated that His Grace had had a closer shave than he realized on that day, but she knew it was untrue and unworthy of her pen. There was nothing this presumptuous lord could do that would turn society against him while he remained the richest single gentleman in England.
Miss Prattle once wrote an entire column, ostensibly devoted to the general debauchery and low behavior of high society, but sprinkled throughout with so many references to the D—e of C—e that she deceived no one, least of all the Duke. Though he put a bland face on it, it angered Clare that it should be publicly advertised how he had failed to follow up in the House of Lords his efforts to alleviate the lot of those engaged in cottage industry, who were losing their livelihood by the introduction of mechanization. It hurt because it was true; he was well aware that he had not put forth his best efforts. Had only made the speech to support Byron—it did not affect his own county—and when George had let it go, he too had forgotten it. He felt the rest—the money spent on gambling and horses—was mere nit-picking, but the slur on his sloth and disinterest spurred him, and he had resumed his activities in the House. Miss Prattle had made no mention of that, he observed to himself.
He was chatting one day in his study with Bippy Tredwell, an intimate friend, and the subject of Miss Prattle arose.
“The woman's turning serious on us,” Bippy offered. “A regular tirade she's come up with today."
“Yes, and she's becoming a dead bore as well,” Clare agreed. For three years he had been listening to people tell him what she had said about him in her latest piece. “I would dearly like to know who this curst Prattle might be."
“Might be anyone,” Bippy surmised.
“Or everyone. She reports simultaneously on the dos in London, and in the country, and at Brighton. Seems to know Prinney and his set pretty well, which indicates an older woman."
“Knew about your bill being overdue at Tatt's, too. Shouldn't do that, Clare. Gambling debt—ought to pay up promptly."
“I cannot believe they were worried about it. There was no dun on my doorstep, and the grand total was five pounds. That one fact, though, indicates a masculine interest.” (It was Sir Herbert who had added that gem, quite by accident.)
“A man, you mean? I've heard Sheridan mentioned, but surely only a woman could write such stuff as you often read, about gowns, and furbelows, and so on."
“Mmm, possibly."
“Someone you've given a heavy set-down. Think a minute."
“Lord, I could think for days. I've insulted them all."
“That's true, and the devil only knows why you do it, when they couldn't be nicer to you if you flattered ‘em all hollow."
“Yes, there's no turning them against a title and fortune. I've been trying for years. I daresay I could call a lady toad-faced and humpbacked, and she'd smile and simper till it's all I can do to keep from shaking her."
“Still, you shouldn't have said Liza Entwhistle always looked good in that blue gown, for her papa's in the basket, and the truth hurts."
“Is he indeed? I didn't know that, or I shouldn't have said it. Really, I was sure it was a new gown, or I shouldn't have said a word. I never do cast aspersions on a lady's real faults, only on her pretensions. Except, of course, when her tenacity makes it absolutely essential."
“What an odd way to go about. You don't make your insults to the point then?"
“I fear my subtleties are quite wasted on the hoi polloi, but I only accuse a lady of a squint when she is minutely aware that her orbs are her finest feature. Take that lamentable waddle of Sylvia Blakeney, for instance. I would never tell her she waddles like a pig in farrow. It would be too utterly crude. I merely imply she sings like a crow, for she's proud of her voice. Whereas Miss Stinson, who sounds for the world like an unoiled hinge when she opens her mouth—I tease about her black curls, with red roots. She has really lovely hair, naturally black. Sets ‘em down a peg to think the whole town isn't admiring them."
“Beats me how they all eat up your barbs like honey, but I'm sure it's nothing to me. There's one who ain't afraid to give you back your own anyway, and that's Miss Prattle."
“Yes, Miss Prattle. Do you think I ought to do something about her—or him? Let us compromise and say ‘it.’ Shall I slay it?"
“How?"
“Now what was the weapon St. George used to slay the dragon? A sword, I believe. Shall I run it through, and do society a favor?"
“Got to find out who she is first."
“Not necessarily, Bip.” He sipped on a glass of sherry, and held the glass to the light to examine its color and clarity. “It would be nothing without me. If I reformed, its column would sink into a dull hash of who is flirting with whom. I make Miss Pratt
le, as surely as Brummell made the Prince."
“By Jove! Doing it too brown. Prinney made Brummell is more like it. His father was Lord North's secretary. Brummell is nothing but the son of a clerk, when all's said and done."
Clare's gray eyes leaped to Bippy's face, and his tone was cool.
“Do you infer that Miss Prattle makes me?” he asked.
“Course not. Didn't mean any such a thing. The way it works, though, you wouldn't be talked about so much if Prattle didn't jot down every word you say and write it up in her column every time you buy a new bit o’ blood or give a party. She does give you a certain éclat you wouldn't have otherwise. Calling you The Great Absent One when you didn't make it to your party that time, and Clare the Bare when you first got your hair cut au naturel. All that sort of nonsense. In a way, she does make you."
“Makes me a laughing stock!” Clare said angrily.
“Well, ‘pon my word, Clare, never knew you to pay so much attention to her before. What's gotten into you?"
“Assaults on my appearance, my habits, and my manners I can tolerate, but when she takes me to task for shirking my duty—when she turns serious..."
“Fact of the matter is you never did do a hand's turn in the House, outside of that one little speech you made, till she got after you."
“I am not interested in politics. I have other concerns about which Prattle knows nothing."
“How could she, when you're as close as an oyster on the subject, and never tell a soul about..."
“I don't want her praise!” He glared and set down his glass. Then he assumed an air of indifference again and continued, “It has got its needle into me, and I think I shall find out who it is. You were right, it is difficult to slay an invisible dragon. Now, how shall I proceed?"
“Ask Thorndyke,” Bippy suggested. “Editor of the Observer. He must know."
“Others have queried Thorndyke. He says nothing. Has promised it anonymity, or some such thing. Damme, I think I must buy the rag."
“What, buy the newspaper? Devilish silly thing to do, Pa'k. Cost you a bundle, and what do you want with a newspaper?"
“It would save buying one each day, and I could fire Prattle."
“No, really! Oh, you're gulling me,” Bippy said, with a sheepish smile when he realized he had been taken in. “Besides, no saying Prattle wouldn't just pick up her wages and leave when she heard you'd bought the paper out. Anonymity would still apply very likely, and you wouldn't even have the pleasure of firing her. Lord, Pa'k, you would look no how, buying a paper and finding the bird had flown."
“True."
“Everybody'd know you'd only done it to put a muzzle on Prattle."
“I should not like to give rise to vulgar tattle, but I was joking ... I think."
“Wouldn't satisfy her."
“It."
“Whatever."
“If only it would stop bestowing those damned cognomens on me."
“Eh?"
“Names, titles—those ones you mentioned. Even—oh really I could strangle it at times—it even had the temerity once to label me a Dandy. Me! Now you must own that is coming it too strong. I never wear a shirt point above my ears, or more than one ring, or padding in my shoulders, or sawdust in my stockings to give me a leg. Damme, the thing is a viper."
“Yes, she ought to know you're a Corinthian."
“But we have honored it too much already with such a discussion. Who do you back in the match Alvanley has set up with his new man and the champ? The champ will take it, I think. I mean to lay a pony on it."
“Too steep for me. I'll settle for a monkey."
Clare's brief interest in Prattle was forgotten, and he made no real efforts to discover her identity.
Chapter Three
In a small but elegant mansion on Grosvenor Square, Lady Sara Mantel sat with her mama, embroidering a monogram on her husband's handkerchiefs. She was tall and dark, generally described as handsome rather than pretty, now that she was in her thirtieth year.
“I wonder if Ella has the column ready,” she remarked. “It is time it was sent off to the Observer. Did you give her the details of the do last night at Carlton House?"
Lady Watley, who considered needlework a dead bore, fanned herself and replied, “I jotted down a few details. She is giving two paragraphs to the Bradigan do you two were at, and one to Clare, so she only wanted the high lights.” She stuffed a bonbon into her pudgy red face and chewed vigorously.
“Clare again!” Lady Sara commented, snipping off a silk thread. “Lud, how she does harp on him. I declare I don't know why she has taken him in such aversion, for he is ever so amusing. We matrons all dote on him."
“He don't have to worry about you married ladies dangling after him, so he can act in a civil manner. Ella says he let fall a very nasty remark about us last night, and she means to tick him off for it."
“The corporate ‘us’ you mean?” Lady Sara asked.
“Yes—Miss Prattle."
“Oh, what did he say?"
“He says he is retiring to the country to be free of her, only he called us it, and he will conduct his amours at Clare Palace in Dorset in future to keep us at bay."
“Poor Ella. What will she do with her favorite subject beyond reach?"
“Talk will dribble back to London. We'll have to make do with hearsay. But what has upset her is that he called us FitzPrattle."
A silvery tinkle of laughter greeted this announcement. “Touché,” Lady Sara said.
“I'm sure I don't see the joke. Ella was most indignant, and now you fall into hysterics. What is so marvelous about adding a Fitz to our name?"
“You must know, Mama, it is the name usually given to by-blows of the great. He is calling Miss Prattle a bastard, but in his usual elegant style."
Lady Watley swallowed her bonbon before her mouth fell open. “Sara!” she gasped. “What do you mean? I know a dozen Fitzes, and none of them are—what you say. There are the FitzGeralds—John and Margaret you know, and while they are Irish they are certainly not that, for his parents are personally known to me. To say nothing of the FitzHughs, who are quite unexceptionable."
Sara applied her needle and smiled to herself. “Yes, they are respectable now, but you may be sure there is a touch of scandal somewhere in their background. Oh, years ago, very likely. Some great-great ancestor. FitzPrattle! Well, Ella shall let him have his own back for that, I make no doubt."
“She is doing something on his remove to Dorset, a sort of mock encomium I believe, congratulating him for realizing he is scandalizing London and taking his black soul off into oblivion."
“I doubt he'll go."
“He goes, Sara. It is a settled thing. He has already invited his two favorite flirts and their mamas. Honor Sedgley won't be left out either; the Marchioness will see to that. Bippy Tredwell will be along to play court clown, and a few other gentlemen to make up the party."
“A pity,” Sara said, her needle poised in the air. “Ella could make something wonderful of it, if only she could get herself invited along."
“Oh, as to that, as well expect him to invite his tailor! He takes no note of Ella."
“Hmm, I wonder how it might be arranged. When do they go?"
“A week's time is what was being said last night."
“I see.” Lady Sara said nothing else but, as she worked her monogram, a look of concentration descended on her face. After perhaps five minutes, it was replaced by a sly smile. “Do you know, Mama, I have decided to go to Almack's tonight"
Her mother grimaced with loathing. “How you can stand that dull place, with Burrell and Esterhazy staring down their noses at you. No decent gambling, and nothing to drink but a glass of lemonade or orgeat. I tell you frankly, Sara, I considered a reprieve from Almack's one of the greater advantages of your match when you married Sir Herbert. You'll drag Ella along, of course, as an excuse for going yourself. She doesn't care for it either, though I daresay she'll tag along and see what
she can pick up for the column."
“Yes, she will go. She knows Clare is more than likely to be there, and she is always happy to throw herself in his path and see what she can glean."
At this moment, Miss Puella Fairmont entered the room, two closely written sheets in her hand. “I've finished the column,” she said. “Do you want to read it?"
“I'll read it tomorrow in the Observer,” Mrs. Watley replied.
Lady Sara put down her embroidery and took the sheets, scanning them quickly. “Why have you signed it Miss F. Prattle?” she asked.
“The F stands for Fitz,” Ella replied. “I am acknowledging his hit quite openly. I haven't come up with a suitable revenge on him yet; I can scarcely question his legitimacy."
“Don't think of it, Ella! That would be going a good deal too far. Besides, Thorndyke wouldn't allow it."
“I know. But I take it as a promising sign that he has made a public utterance at last on my existence. He often pretends he doesn't know whom people are talking about, you know, when he is roasted about me. ‘I don't believe I have the honor of the person's acquaintance,’ he will say, or some such odious thing. Well, he has admitted he knows who I am now."
“Yes, and given a pretty good idea as to what he thinks of you, too.” She rang a bell and sent the papers off with a footman, who knew from long habit he was to remove his livery and proceed on his secret mission to the offices of the Observer in a hired hack, so that no one would remark on the daily trip of Sir Herbert Mantel's carriage to that destination.
“By the by, Ella,” Lady Sara said, “we are going to Almack's tonight."
Ella wrinkled her nose in distaste but made no verbal demur.
“Why don't you wear your new golden gown, and try that hairstyle we saw in the Belle Assemblée?” Sara suggested, regarding her niece critically as she spoke. She had a nice straight figure, if slightly thin. The hair was just brown, and she made no effort to be in fashion, but the face was rather pretty. If only she would look alive, and play up to any of the gentlemen who took an interest in her. She was shy, of course, but really it was too absurd of her to go on being shy for four seasons, while plainer girls nabbed every man out from under her nose. If she could be induced to say in public the sharp, amusing things she said at home and in her column, she would be taken up as an Original.