by Joan Smith
“I'm not finished this one yet."
“If only everyone would stop interrupting Miss Fairmont,” Belle charged them.
“Well, it seems that Matilda, not content with doing away with that suitor who came to call and vanished, lay in waiting on the road one dark night to kill his sweetheart. She had a jade sword she meant to use, but when she raised her hand to kill the poor girl, the sword was turned against her by some unseen force, and took her own head clean off."
“Rubbish,” Clare scoffed.
“Yes, just missing her ruff by a fraction of an inch,” Ella assured him. “And she, with great presence of mind, I must admit, picked up her own head and walked home with it underneath her arm."
“Oh, how horrid!” Miss Sheridan gasped, feeling her neck. “I shan't sleep a wink tonight. I know I shan't."
“And be hagged tomorrow,” Belle teased. “What a silly you are. I wonder, Clare, if Matilda might not be your Crazy Nellie."
“No, Nellie is definitely a lady of the Queen Anne period, with a head still on, and red hair."
“Like Miss Prentiss,” Miss Prentiss said mischievously.
“Just so, and a pink gown."
“The family is full of lunatics,” Lady Sara said amiably.
“And ghosts,” Clare added.
The shutter in the yellow suite set up its banging again, and a breeze keening through the ill-fitted French door chose that moment to extinguish two candles.
“I hope that storm lets up, or the roads will be very bad for that little party you plan tomorrow night,” Lady Sara remarked to Clare. “Though if it is still raining tomorrow morning, we can spend the day decorating your ballroom. How would you like it done?"
“Why not make it a ghost party?” Ella suggested. “With so many of your dead relatives wandering around, it is a fitting atmosphere."
“Yes, let's,” Belle cried, clapping her hands and envisioning an early performance of Anne Boleyn.
Honor yawned, and looked at her thumbs.
“How does one decorate for a ghost party?” Miss Sheridan inquired. “And what sort of dress ought one to wear? I had planned to wear my violet gown..."
Lady Sara had no recommendation for a gown, but for decorations thought some old sheets draped over furniture and a dimming of the lights would give the place a feeling of disuse.
“Cobwebs,” Harley added.
“Where the devil do you think you'll get cobwebs?” Bippy asked.
“From spiders! Attics, barns, lots of places."
“You may be in charge of providing cobwebs,” Clare told him, with a mental note to tell his mama of this delightful folly.
“Certainly, glad to help out. And the ladies can be in charge of sheets."
“Old chains, too,” Ella added, “preferably hanging loosely, so that they rattle and clank."
“And you may be in charge of chains, Miss Fairmont,” her host informed her.
“Let's all dress up in costumes,” Belle exclaimed. She was finding it hard to keep up with the inventive Miss Fairmont in new ideas.
“Oh, but I was going to wear my violet gown!” Miss Sheridan said. “I didn't bring a costume with me."
“No one did, silly,” Belle told her. “I daresay Clare has an attic full of old outfits. We can find something."
“Is Miss Prentiss in charge of costumes?” Ella asked Clare.
“Oh no! I cannot contrive an outfit for everyone. We must all get our own."
“We shall spend a delightful morning in the attics, breathing dust and rummaging through old trunks,” Clare said with a mock smile.
“Jolly good sport,” Peters agreed happily. “What have you got up there, Clare?"
“I have never been in the attics,” he said, not quite truthfully. “Mama could tell you better, but unfortunately she is—not feeling well."
“What is the matter with her?” Sara asked.
“I believe your niece could tell you the precise name of her ailment,” he returned, with a conspiratorial smile at Ella, whom he had seen biting her lip when he pronounced his mama ill.
“Just a headache, I believe she said,” Ella replied in some confusion.
“Severe headache. She has taken some laudanum,” Clare added, looking towards the Marchioness, who had been sitting listening with the older ladies to the plans of the youngsters.
“That is too bad,” Sara commiserated. “You know, Clare, I have been thinking, if it is to be a costume party, you must let all the people from the neighborhood know about it."
“You're right, and there is my morning taken care of. I'll have to make a tour and tell them. I certainly hope the rain lets up."
“I shall go with you,” Lady Honor informed him.
“You are very kind,” he replied, inclining his head slightly towards her.
Her declaration raised a furor in many breasts, but when Honor spoke a thing was settled. Miss Sheridan nibbled her finger. She would have liked very well to be of this party with two members of the nobility, one of them her beloved Clare, but a moment's consideration recalled her to the rigors of her toilette. It would be a scramble indeed for her and her mama and their women to arrange a costume for her in only one day. She could not imagine how it could be creditably contrived in time.
A general discussion followed, with everyone putting forward an idea for the decorations of the ballroom and the costumes to be worn.
“How will you go, Miss Fairmont?” Bippy asked her.
“It is a secret,” she replied, and said not another word on the subject during the ten minutes he continued to prod her playfully, suggesting such unlikely disguises as a Princess, by Jove, or a flower. Lady Sara, too, was strangely silent, for she did not wish to reveal the excellent idea that had come to her, in case someone else should steal it.
The storm continued, and after a suitable period of time, yawns began to be irrepressible and someone suggested bed. Clare strolled to Ella's side and detained her on her way past. Belle Prentiss sat on the edge of a chair and untied her shoe, so she had the excuse of having to retie it to stay there and listen to them.
“Thank you again, Miss Fairmont,” Clare began.
“Oh, for what?"
“For another of your brilliant ideas—the ghost party."
“I don't think you cared for it?” she said, making it a question.
“It is a host's place to provide what his guests like, and mine appear to like your idea prodigiously. Much better, in fact, than I like your limerick about me."
“But I didn't—how did you come to see it?"
“Picked it up out of the wood basket. I thought it might relieve your mind a little to know I do plan to attend this party. In fact, I even care what some people think of me. You have been taking your impression of me from Prattle, I fear."
It may be imagined with what tumultuous feelings Ella heard this comment. When she wrote of him before, she had not really known him, except in a public way. Upon having observed him closely for a few days, she felt he was not so toplofty as she had believed, and the provocation for his cutting remarks was severe. In short, she had been unjust, and to continue writing of him while a guest was not only unjust, but iniquitous.
She could make no reply, and Clare continued in a light tone, “What, speechless with remorse at what you wrote of me, or speechless with anger that I read it?"
“I am only surprised you would have bothered."
“It was no bother. I had only to bend over a very little and pick it up."
“Still,” she rallied, “one is surprised to see the Duke of Clare bend at all."
“Floored again,” he said, regarding her closely in a half-smile, his eyebrows raised. “Where the deuce have you been hiding yourself all these years in London? I thought I knew all the interesting ladies, but I never knew you to be one of them till this visit."
“You have misunderstood the matter, milord,” she replied gravely. “I did not become interesting till I was singled out by the Duke of Clare for
the exceedingly great honor of an invitation to his palace. You could not expect me to go on being dull after that."
He pursed his lips and tried to frown. “No, you don't find it in the least difficult to give me a set-down, do you? And I haven't even the excuse of not being forewarned, for you told me so when I made you waltz with me."
They began walking towards the doorway, a few paces behind the last of the departing guests, only Belle remaining in the saloon now. “It was unwise of you to make me, n'est-ce pas?"
“I refuse to regret it. Till then I didn't know what a nice sharp-tongued vixen you could be. Tell me, how is it you managed to convince Bippy and my Mama that you are unexceptionable?"
“I don't know what maggot Tredwell has got into his head; he scarcely looked at me till recently, but as to your Mama, it is not me she likes, but Miss Austen."
“Oh, no, she definitely called you that nice little Miss Fairmont."
“A conventional epithet."
“How very poorly you accept a compliment. You've no idea how glad I am to have found out your weakness."
“I believe Lady Honor is waiting to have a word with you,” Ella was happy to point out. Lady Honor had turned aside at the foot of the staircase. Flirtation was a new experience for Ella, and to be doing so with Clare as her first partner was nerve-wracking in the extreme. She preferred sparring with him.
“She'll be wanting me to tell her what she is to wear for the masquerade party. What shall we send her as? A zombie, perhaps?"
A spontaneous chuckle escaped Ella's lips before she took her leave and ran to catch up with Sara.
Belle rose slowly from the arm of the chair where she had been balancing, an unsettled expression on her face. It was an admixture of astonishment, jealousy, and anger. Three ladies chasing after Lord Clare were quite enough. She must cut this one out, before she became a positive nuisance.
Sara entered Ella's room for a chat before retiring and sat down on the end of her bed. “You are making yourself very much at home, having a coze with the Dowager, and a little private tête-à-tête with the Duke. Trying to steal my beau, are you?"
“But, of course,” Ella agreed laughingly. “You didn't think I'd let a real live duke slip through my fingers without trying to nab him, did you?"
“Yes, that is precisely what I thought. And don't try to con me you are on the catch for him, for I know you've bated him any time these three years. I suppose you're collecting news for Prattle. What extravagant follies have you been eking out of the poor unsuspecting soul?"
“No folly. He's not so bad when you get to know him."
“Take care, my girl, the next step is to go tumbling into love with him! We should have Prattle's first column about the visit at Clare by tomorrow. I trust Mama padded it out appropriately with London gossip to maintain the mystery."
“Oh, yes, I sent in only a few paragraphs."
“The masquerade ball will make a good story. And tell me, have you decided to go as Crazy Nellie too, for I know you said your outfit was a secret, and I have decided to be Nellie myself, so you'll have to choose something else."
“You are welcome to Crazy Nellie. I daresay she's been done a dozen times. I will be Matilda."
“Not, I trust, with your head tucked underneath your arm."
“But of course, that is the whole point of it! I hope I can find something to do for a head in the attic—an old hat form or some such thing I can paint up. And how am I to hide my own head, and still see where I am going?"
“Oh, Ella, marvelous! I wish I had thought of that. How can it be done?"
“Some sort of wadding stacked up around my ears to hold a dress up to head level I expect, and I'll have to cut two holes for eyes. I refuse to terrorize a whole roomful of people and not get to see the reaction myself. Isn't it going to be wonderful?"
“But very difficult to arrange. And you'll need a ruff too."
They discussed plans happily for some while, then with a yawn, Sara was off to her own room.
But when Ella lay down in her elegant four-poster bed, fashioned with a gilded birdcage on top, it was not her outfit that worried her, but her treatment of Clare, and the degree of rancor he felt for Miss Prattle, which showed itself in little ways like his limerick and naming his frog for her. She must be on her guard, say nothing to let the truth slip out, but more even than this horrible possibility, she worried about the ethics of flaying him publicly as she had been doing for years. She would say nothing else against him personally, that was the least she could do. To suddenly cut him from her column entirely would be too odd, and too displeasing to Thorndyke, too. No, she must ease off gradually, mention the party at Clare, but not the host. For the first time in her life, she was sorry that she was Miss Prattle.
Belle was the last to leave the saloon. By the time she got to the hallway, it was deserted, and she stood for a moment, looking around her, admiring it, and thinking how she would change the pictures when she was mistress here. She heard a timid footstep behind her, and looking around, nearly fell over from shock. There, in the beautiful flesh, stood Clare's flirt, whom she had seen in the village. She was dressed in a shawl for going outdoors, or had just come in.
She took the immediate resolve to find out all she could from the girl while she had such a perfect opportunity. “Are you looking for someone?” she asked, smiling sweetly, and making her voice soft.
“No, mum,” the girl said. A very common accent!
“Looking for a door perhaps?” Belle laughed kindly.
“Oh, no, mum. I've just come in."
“I see. Well, are you sure you're not looking for someone?"
“Well,” the girl licked her lips, and jiggled from one foot to the other. “A housekeeper then, mum, or the dook, maybe..."
Belle's heart raced. He had sent to have the woman come here! “Is the duke expecting you?"
“Yes, mum. He said I was to come."
“And what is your name, my dear?” adopting a maternal attitude, though she was not more than a year older than the young girl.
“Prissie. Prissie Muckleton. My pa works here, in the stables,” she volunteered.
“We must certainly let the duke know you are come,” Belle said, gloating inside with her triumph.
She had a vision of herself conducting the person to His Grace's chamber, but this ultimate glory was denied her. The butler came into the hall to extinguish lights for the night, and upon spying Prissie in conversation with a guest, took the wench by the arm and said, “Here, you. What are you doing in here?” in a very rough manner.
“I was asked to come,” Prissie said, fearfully.
“Not in the front door you weren't,” the butler replied.
“I didn't come in by the front door, but the little side door by the garden."
“The back door for the likes of you,” the stern butler decreed and carted her off.
Belle's feet barely touched the stairs as she flitted to her room. She lay long awake, deciding how to use this piece of information she had chanced across. She settled on nothing, but the possibilities were endless to one of her inventive talents.
Chapter Eight
The morning brought a respite from the rain, but no sunny skies, and Ella nurtured a secret hope that by nightfall they would be enjoying another storm. With a heavy day's work arranging her costume before her, she arose just before 9:00, thinking she would be the first one up. Several others were of the same opinion, and a full crew, even including Lady Honor, had assembled round the table before 9:30. Ella heard her name—her Miss Prattle name—mentioned by Miss Prentiss as she entered the breakfast room. She held the Morning Observer in her hands and was regaling them with the first column to have reached Dorset, though others were already printed in London.
“FitzPrattle has no good idea of your hospitality, Clare,” she said. “Only hear what she writes of our little party. ‘Those patrons who thought they were poorly entertained at the Concert of Ancient Music last night ma
y thank their lucky stars they were not at C—e Palace, where the tired guests who had traveled all day were required to sing for their supper before they were allowed to go to bed. Miss P—s must have been exhausted, for rumor has it she was made to sing, dance and act two excerpts from Shakespeare. The D—e of C—e, we are happy to inform you all, was home to greet his guests. Let us hope he has something better planned for them than amateur talent nights. The momentous announcement we are all waiting for with bated breath has not been made, but Miss P—s must have got a neck ahead of the others, if entertaining is one of the requirements for the post of Duchess.’ Well, that is very bad of her,” Belle said, smiling from ear to ear.
Miss Sheridan grabbed the paper to make sure no mention was made of Miss S—n's performance. “She hasn't said a word about me,” she pouted.
“Take heart,” Clare told her. “This is only the beginning. It will get to you soon enough."
“He means Prattle,” Bippy advised Miss Sheridan. “Calls her it."
“This paper is days old,” Belle said. “I wonder what she will say about our frog contest."
“She'd better say I won with Green Boy, or I'll write her a letter,” Peters said.
“Accuracy is not one of its concerns,” Clare warned him.
“She doesn't mention any of us but you, Miss Prentiss,” Sherry said, when she had investigated the paper thoroughly. “Not even Lady Honor. Everyone will be wondering if I even got here, though at least they know I was invited. It never said you and Miss Fairmont were coming, Lady Sara. Strange that Miss Prattle did not say you were here, too."
“Clare only invited us at the last moment,” Sara said. She was secure enough in her social position that she could admit it without shame.
“Yes, and, of course, she would not have named Miss Fairmont as one of the three in the Judgment of Paris contest."
“You take FitzPrattle too seriously, my dear,” Clare told her. She did not catch that he was saying he had no intention of choosing a bride from among the three, but Miss Prentiss, who alone knew of Prissie Muckleton, put this interpretation on his words. Of the three original girls, she had always felt that she had the inner track. And of the three, she was also the only one who had noticed his new partiality for Miss Fairmont. Being a worldly girl, Belle had assumed Miss Fairmont was along to lend an air of respectability to Lady Sara's presence. She was one of his long-standing flirts. But the presence of Prissie Muckleton shot that theory into a cocked hat. No, Miss Fairmont was not her aunt's chaperon, but a threat in her own right. After that flirtation—really it went beyond conversation to reach the elevated status of flirtation—she had overheard between them last night, she was on her guard. She might have to take steps to eliminate Miss Fairmont.