by Joan Smith
To do honor to his country guests, Clare made sure to dance next with one of them. Belle Prentiss was not happy to be fourth on his list and considered quite seriously mentioning what she had seen in the village. She was angling to get Clare to her Papa's home for the New Year, however, so she resisted the temptation, and amused him instead with a lively account of a verse play she was writing, all about Anne Boleyn.
“I think it should be finished by the end of October, and we hope to get it mounted in time to perform it over the Christmas holidays at home in Hampshire. You recall you promised to come to us for New Year's? We shall do it then."
“I said I would try to come,” he reminded her.
“No, no. You said you would come. We are quite counting on it. I have put in a tiny part for you, so you can learn it in a day or two and take part in the performance. I shall make you the ax-man."
“Excellent casting. I can't think I shall have to learn a line at all. And—need I inquire who will play the queen?"
“Well, she did have auburn hair,” Miss Prentiss said coyly.
“Tell me, who is to play the part of your infamous husband?"
“Papa,” she laughed, “for he is fat and gouty and ill-tempered, just like Henry the Eighth."
“Take care he doesn't hand me a real ax for the show. It would serve you well, hoyden."
This was just the sort of bold rallying that Belle reveled in, and she went on to explain how the beheading was to he handled in a very realistic manner, without, of course, really severing her head from her neck. By the end of her exposition, the dance was over.
Clare looked about to see whom else he must dance with and spotted Miss Fairmont at the pianoforte with her aunt, who was about to relieve Mrs. Prentiss, who had to run immediately to Belle to see what ‘he’ had said during the dance.
He strode towards her and asked, “May I have the pleasure of the next dance, Miss Fairmont?"
“I don't dance well,” she replied. “Sara is going to play a waltz, you see, and I have not managed to get on to it yet very well, though we have had a dozen lessons."
He could hardly have been more surprised had she reached out and hit him. He had never been refused a partner since he had become the Duke of Clare.
“Surely I saw you waltz at Almack's,” he said.
“I am surprised you should ask me to stand up with you if you saw that. I was all over poor Mr. Tredwell's feet."
“I'll take my chances."
“No, thank you. I have tried and tried, and have finally decided I am too old a dog to learn these new tricks.” She actually turned and began to walk away. She was only an indifferent waltzer, and did not wish to appear awkward in front of Clare. Her embarrassment led to the brusqueness of her answers. Clare was more intrigued than offended, and perhaps more shocked than intrigued. He took a step after her.
“Come now, Miss Fairmont, you cannot be so old as all that."
She was surprised and dismayed to see he kept on after her.
“I am one and twenty. Well past it."
“I can give you nearly ten years, and I have learned the waltz."
“But you are a man."
“What has that to say to anything? A woman's limbs do not wither faster than a man's, do they?"
“It is a matter of custom. Till a young lady is seventeen, you see, she is too young to be going into society and learning the new tricks. Then when she is over twenty, she is too old."
“That leaves you four years in which to have learned them."
“True, but I have not mastered that particular trick. Nor many others either,” she added. Having reached the edge of the room, she sat down, and the Duke took up a chair beside her, when she was sure he would go and find another partner.
“You have wasted your time in libraries, I gather,” he prodded, fearing she was about to fall into one of her silences.
“Good gracious, don't slander me so. I counted on you to keep my dissipation a secret. You must know a lady's mind must remain unsullied of knowledge if she hopes to make any sort of respectable alliance at all. It wouldn't do for me to be knowing anything."
“You sound regretful. Was there something you wished to know?"
“Nothing in the world. Ignorance is bliss, and I wouldn't like to have my bliss disturbed.” There was a rallying sparkle in her brown eyes as she made this reply, which led him to hope she was not putting an end to the conversation.
“You are a prevaricating hussy, if you will pardon my saying so, ma'am."
“I was all set to take it for a compliment till you asked my pardon. I have no notion what a prevaricator may be, but a hussy is surely only a corruption of ‘housewife,’ and while it is not quite accurate to call me so, it is surely no insult."
“Take care, your bliss is slipping there, with such a show of semantics.” A slow smile was playing on his lips. He might have known Sara's niece would not be a dead loss.
“It has only minor pin holes in it. Nothing, I do hope, to give you a disgust of me."
“Your bliss might be in shreds without disgusting me in the least."
“But it is not. I am a completely noble savage."
“So you are blissful in the French metaphor, as well as. the English."
“Surely we English are second to none in savagery. You have only to look at Bedlam or Newgate."
“Second only to the French, and particularly M. Rousseau."
“Don't taint me with so much worldly knowledge, my lord. I will be mistaken for a Blue. I already stand accused of having once read a book other than a gothic novel. I was only allowed back into society by promising I didn't understand a word of it."
“What book was it? Let me guess now. But of course, La Nouvelle Heloise."
“No indeed. It was Dr. Ward's Treatise on Drops, Pills and Panaceas, if I have remembered the title correctly,” she said with an innocent stare. “I could not but think the cure worse than the disease, when he started writing of ‘vomits, purges and sweats in a great degree.’ I made sure he was a quack. I do not recommend it to anyone."
“I personally put complete faith in James's Powders,” he said, equally seriously, till he saw her catch her lower lip between her teeth, at which point he too broke down and laughed.
“So you refuse to come and dance with me?” he asked again.
“These withered limbs could not stand such dissipation,” she told him, yet she was regretting her refusal. She would not so much mind stepping on his toes, now that she saw he had a sense of humor.
“If they could withstand balancing on that blasted raft in the middle of a pond, they can withstand a waltz. Come now, you cost me a guinea with your race, and I demand a forfeit."
“What strange ideas of hospitality prevail in the homes of the aristocracy,” she lamented, but she arose with no reluctance as Sara started up the music. “And if I step all over you, it is your own fault,” she added.
“You are relieved of all responsibility to my toes,” he assured her as he took her in his arms. “And to think, I warned your aunt only yesterday she ought to teach you how to converse in polite society."
“So she told me, and you may imagine how pleased I was to hear it!"
“Ah, I counted on Sara to be more discreet. Blurted it right out, did she?"
“She did, but I have the irrational habit of not listening to people who tell me what to do. It is the result of an old nanny who used to make me do all manner of unpleasant things when I was in the schoolroom. Always for my own good, of course, only they never did me any good that I could see. What is the good of stitching a sampler so ugly your own mama refused to hang it in the house, or finishing your bread and butter, when it makes you so full you can't finish your sweet?"
“Very true."
“And what is the point in talking politely to you, when you are just looking for the chance to give me a set-down, as you did to others of your invited guests, within my hearing yesterday."
“I am not likely to try gi
ving you a setdown, however, if by any chance you should turn civil towards me. I make no doubt you would best me."
“I cannot think it would be at all difficult,” she smiled.
“Touché! And now that you have floored me, I'll smother you in remorse by congratulating you on your inspired notion of having a frog race. What have you planned for us tomorrow?"
“One can have a deal of fun at ducks and drakes if it is properly handled."
“How is it done at Fairmont? All rules and regulations, I suppose?"
“But of course, with stiff penalties for those who fail to skip their stone at least twice."
“Poor Miss Sedgley."
“Oh, she will make you do it for her."
“Very likely. But please, elaborate as to the sort of penalty awaiting the unskilled."
“We made Bertie, my brother, hop to the barn and back on one foot, and Sara had to sing a song in French. That sort of thing."
“That should keep ‘em from being bored to finders for a few hours,” he said. “Peters will bet a monkey he can skip his half a dozen times, and Harley will throw one with his left and right hands simultaneously, and Miss Prentiss will call her stone something clever."
“They enter into a game with great gusto. That makes it more fun."
The waltz was over, with no visible mutilation of Clare's toes and with Ella's confidence in good repair. He had not been so bad, once she got over her fear of him. The dancing continued pleasantly till 12:30, when light refreshments were served before they all retired.
Chapter Seven
No contest of ducks and drakes was held the next day, for England had reverted to typical weather, streaking a fine rain over the verdant countryside, and slate gray skies promising no relief in the near future. Everyone slept late, and as they wandered from the breakfast room one by one, they made no plans for the day. Miss Sheridan went to her room to have her hair done up in papers for the Méduse; Miss Prentiss dashed off a poem on the Frog-Jumping race, and Miss Prattle wrote up a column for the Observer before going to the library to browse.
It was there that she encountered Clare's mother, deep in conversation with Mr. Shane. She was a tall, handsome woman, who would have been called homely if she were not a duchess. Her face and nose were long, and her dark hair was turned to white in an irregular way, in a strip down the middle of her head. It was difficult not to stare at it. Although the Dowager Duchess was the titular hostess of the party, she took her duties lightly. She presided at table for the meals and was in evidence during the evening rituals, whatever form they took. In between, she could usually be found either with her long nose in a book, or in the garden, where she struggled valiantly to grow roses in the chalk soil of Dorset. The garden being inaccessible today, she was looking for a good story to pass the morning. She loved reading, but had never stood accused of even a twilight tinge of blue. She read novels, and no very edifying ones either. History, religion, philosophy and science were but words to her, and volumes on the shelves to be avoided.
It was her aim to get through life with as little bother as possible, and as much pleasure. Her joys were the simple ones mentioned. She cared nothing for crowns and coronets and went only rarely to London, preferring to have her company come to her. She loved Patrick and would be easier in her mind if she could see him married to some nice girl before she died, but she had no intention of passing away soon, and so she did not push him. She always looked with interest over the young ladies he invited to Clare and was curious to hear his comments on them. She thought the lot he had brought this time a sorry one, and wondered he had invited anyone at all when he had so much business to attend to with his charity work. Well, he would tell her all about it in his own good time. They would get together and have a good coze, as they always did. She looked at the girl before her, trying to recall the name. Lady Sara's niece; she knew that. Fairmont, that was it.
“Ah, Miss Fairmont,” she exclaimed. “What a dull party my son has got up, when his guests must amuse themselves in the library."
“Not in the least, ma'am. We are having a good time, but in such weather as this our activities are confined."
“It looks as if we are in for a rainy day,” she replied, glancing through the mullioned windows. “Those clouds don't intend letting up in five minutes. Are you come for a novel?"
“Why no, ma'am, though I usually devour them as though they were bonbons.” The gleam of interest in Miss Fairmont's eye was met by a responding one from the Duchess.
“You'll find them all here,” she was assured. “Frances Burney, Mrs. Radcliffe, Maria Edgeworth. It's a chore to find a nice story written by a woman. They know what we like to read."
“No doubt then you are familiar with the works of Miss Austen."
“I can't say I've heard of her. A new one, is she?"
“She has published three in the last few years—all charming."
“You must give me the titles, and I'll have Patrick pick them up when he goes back to town."
“Why, I can do better than that. I have the best one of them all with me—Pride and Prejudice. I'll get it for you."
Ella thought she would send the book to her ladyship's room by a maid, but the Duchess trailed right along with her and sat down for a chat while Ella jotted down the titles. This gave the older lady a chance to assess Patrick's new acquaintance. Not in his usual style—no beauty—but a taking little thing.
“You are the girl who thought up the frog race—an excellent idea. Most of the young ladies nowadays want to spend their time sitting in the shade, looking like Gainsborough paintings. It wasn't so in my day.” She elaborated on this theme a little, meeting agreement from her companion, and left with a favorable impression of Miss Fairmont.
Ella nipped back to the library to browse amongst a selection of books on magic, ghosts, and witchcraft. She had a hearty chuckle over them later, read a few passages to Sara, and declared them absurd.
When luncheon was announced, the Dowager had to be called twice, for she was deep into her novel and the problems confronting the penniless Bennet family in finding husbands for their five daughters. As soon as the meal was over, she hastened back to her suite. Mr. Collins had just made his entrance into the story, and she was enraptured with him.
The other inhabitants of Clare Palace were less thrilled with their afternoon. The rain continued, effectively confining even the gentlemen to the house. “What shall we do?” Miss Sheridan voiced the old familiar question. She was not averse to remaining indoors, for her new yellow voile was really a summer gown, and would not do for chasing frogs, if Miss Fairmont started that again.
'The library here is excellent,” Ella volunteered, which statement might as well have remained unsaid for all the interest it elicited.
Only Clare cocked an eyebrow and said to her aside, “Making your debauchery quite public, are you, Miss Fairmont?"
“What do you mean?” Belle asked, moving her chair closer to Clare so that she might join this private chat. “There is no debauchery in books. I read all the time."
“It is a private joke,” Clare said in a damping voice.
“Speaking of private jokes, Clare,” she said, softly now, so that Miss Fairmont might not hear, “Did I tell you what we saw in the village two days ago?"
His face stiffened, and his voice when he replied was cold. “No, ma'am, but I have observed you are having the greatest difficulty in keeping it to yourself. Let us hear it, by all means."
“Oh, I can hold my tongue,” she replied, laughingly. He was looking so disapproving that she said no more on that score. “Let's play a word game,” she said, to the room at large. “Do you have letters, Clare?"
“There may be some in the nursery,” he replied, thus stating, either intentionally or by accident, what he thought of the idea.
“Got any jigsaw puzzles?” Bippy asked. Harley reached out and hit him, and Peters rolled up his eyes in disgust.
“We could write limericks,” Ella
suggested. No one was enthralled with this idea either, except Miss Prentiss who was so clever with her pen that she was sure she could out-write the others.
Belle took the idea up, and with two interested in it, it was sold to the others.
“Whom do we write about?” Bippy asked.
“Anybody you like,” Belle told him.
“I know whom I shall write about,” Miss Sheridan said, twinkling her black eyes at Clare. The angry look Miss Prentiss shot her gave rise to the suspicion that she might have the same idea.
“It's best to write about dead people,” Ella advised. “Or at least people who are absent—public figures. It would be all right to do Wellington or Prinney, or Princess Caroline."
“Let's make out a list,” Sara said. “Henry VIII would be a good one to start with."
“And Lady Godiva,” Ella added.
“You must include Anne Boleyn! I shall do her, if I may, since she is the subject of my verse play, and I am familiar with her history."
“I'll do Byron then,” Ella decided.
“I'll do Princess Caroline,” Sara remarked.
“I'll do Prinney's other wife, Fitzherbert,” Bippy mumbled.
“Who will you do, Clare?” Belle asked. “Anne Boleyn's ax-man perhaps?"
“I'll do Prattle,” he replied. He told Lady Honor she would do Shakespeare, and stuck a pencil in her hand. “All right,” she said.
The others made their selections, and the party was soon busy scribbling away, with Miss Prentiss interrupting at frequent intervals to remind them of such necessities as rhyme scheme and meter. No one knew what she was talking about, and Lord Harley finally told her in quite a sharp tone that it was hard to write when someone kept on interrupting you every time you thought of a good rhyme.
In about ten minutes they were finished, and their various efforts waiting to be read aloud, with blushes and grimaces attending the ordeal.
Bippy had forgotten it was a limerick they were doing and wrote nearly a complete sonnet. Lady Honor made up for his profusion by writing only one line. “William Shakespeare wrote plays,” she had composed, at the end of the allotted time.