Escapade

by Joan Smith

  Even Lady Honor entered the fray, in her own irrelevant manner. “I planted six lemon seeds, and three of them sprouted, at Strayward,” she said.

  Sherry was so miffed at the falsity of Belle's charge that she didn't even acknowledge this utterance from the daughter of a marquis. “I am not subject to freckles, Miss Prentiss,” she retorted. “They usually go with red hair. Mama does have some lemons though, if you would like to try some to bleach out your freckles for Clare's ball."

  “One of them is three inches high,” Lady Honor added.

  This dictum too was ignored. “No, no, I don't spend all day worrying about my looks, the way some people do,” Belle shot back, while still smiling politely.

  “A pity,” Mrs. Sheridan said, with a quick perusal of her daughter's tormentor.

  Mrs. Prentiss could not allow this slur on her daughter's appearance to go unchallenged, and she went into a spiel on the far-flung accomplishments of her daughter.

  “Oh, yes, we know Belle is up to anything,” Mrs. Sheridan snapped. “There is no end to her accomplishments, and her interminable demonstrations of them.” She sat huffing in agitation, and sprinkled sugar on her cold cuts by mistake.

  This was too lively a discussion for Lady Honor. She retired from the fray and busied herself with the plate of smoked salmon. Ella felt acutely uncomfortable and kept her eyes on her plate, but Sara and Clare exchanged a silent smile. Such scenes of jealousy were no novelty to him, and this one pleased Lady Sara very well. Any chance either of them had ever had was effectually laid to rest now.

  The Dowager feared the meal would turn into a cat fight, as she later told her son, so to forestall the possibility, she made public a piece of news she had received by the morning's post. She had meant to give Clare a private warning first, but it proved impossible.

  “I have had a note from Lord Strayward this morning,” she said, addressing herself to the Marchioness, who did not appear much interested to hear it. Clare, on the other hand, was deeply alarmed. His fork clattered to his plate from the involuntary and quite violent jerk of his wrist.

  “Yes,” the Duchess continued, “he will arrive today and accompany you and Honor back to London."

  “Why did he think it necessary to come so far out of his way?” Clare asked. “Strayward is miles east of here. The ladies might have stopped on their way to London and gone on with him from there.” The question was neither necessary, nor was it really answered. There was no doubt why he was coming. He was making himself available to accept an offer for his daughter's hand. Plain as a pikestaff. Not satisfied with shoving that pale lump of a girl on to him to entertain for a week, he now meant to make her a life tenant. Action must be taken, and it was bound to be unpleasant. He would not be coerced into offering for Honor, if he had to shove the whole family out the door by main force.

  “I don't know,” his Mama said, giving the reply a questioning tone, in hopes that the Marchioness would enlighten her.

  “He didn't write to me; not a line,” she was told.

  “Very likely it has something to do with the election at Bournemouth,” the Dowager suggested. “He'd be backing Sempleton."

  “Yes, he will be for the Tory,” his wife asserted. Strayward was active in politics.

  “Then he will be backing the loser,” Clare said. What little partiality he felt in politics was for the Whigs.

  “England will be the loser in that case,” Lady Honor said, with an uncharacteristic emphasis. She nearly frowned at Clare.

  “When does he come?” Clare asked.

  “He expects to arrive late this afternoon,” his mother replied.

  Not so bad then, Clare thought. The party were all leaving early next morning, and there was the ball this evening. He would play least in sight and try to avoid a confrontation. It was damnably unpleasant to offend these well-connected peers that one must go on meeting everywhere.

  Clare hid in his study after lunch and around 4:00 rode to Kitswell to round up his business at the orphanage. He intended to return home only in time to change for dinner. How his guests spent their afternoon he neither knew nor cared. The ladies, he supposed, would be busy preparing for the ball, and Bippy and the gentlemen could amuse themselves out of doors. The weather was good. Clare left Kitswell just before 6:00—no country hours for dinner on the day of the ball. He cantered home alone, his mind ranging over a wide field of thought.

  The ghost of Lady Honor obtruded itself, of course, and a morose picture followed of himself married to that lifeless body. He could vividly picture her setting her arm on his sleeve and saying “I will marry you,” as she said “I will go with you,” whenever there was a trip in the offing. Impossible! Still it was time, and past time, to marry someone. Sherry? A beautiful little widgeon. How Mama would rail if he offered for her! And how dull life would be, once one was accustomed to her beauty. Truth to tell, her physical charms were beginning to pall already. No, she was fine to look at, and her absurd utterances were mildly amusing, but one did not marry a mannequin. Belle? She was lively enough. Always had some rig running. And yet, there were those interminable demonstrations of her talents, as Mrs. Sheridan had so sweetly pointed out.

  The other nubile lady under his roof he considered the longest of all. Miss Fairmont had definitely caught his fancy. Not beautiful—yet not quite plain either. A surprising prettiness—something in her eyes—when she smiled at you unexpectedly. Mama liked her, which was nice, but not necessary. Yes, of the four, she was the only one he could envisage living with without running mad. A soft smile curved his lips to think of her surprise when he told her. What would she say? Something outrageous. Yet she was no stranger to masculine attentions. Harley and Peters were infatuated with her and, of course, Bippy was really the one who had discovered her. In fact, twice that very day it had been pointed out to him that Peters was dangling after her. A little tension stirred in his breast when he recalled her setting off for the pond with Peters and staying so long alone with him. She might be with him now. He urged his horse on to a faster pace, without realizing he was doing so, or why.

  He rode into the stable and was relieved to see Strayward had not arrived yet. He walked around to the front of the house to see if his carriage was coming. It wasn't. Deciding to go in at the east entrance to have a look at the ballroom, to satisfy Belle who would certainly demand praise, he walked back in that direction towards his Mama's rose garden. It was sadly depleted after the morning's foray, and he looked around, frowning slightly. He heard a rustling behind him, from the stone bench on the other side of a planting of yellow rose bushes. He turned and saw Ella just arising, with a book in her hand.

  “Ah, Ella,” he said, smiling. “Looking into that book of Kant's I recommended, are you?"

  “No, sir, I am enjoying the cynicism of La Rochefoucauld. What a nasty person he was to be sure. Suspected everyone of being as vile as he was himself."

  “I like him excessively,” Clare replied, solely for the sake of a little argument.

  “Now isn't that a coincidence?” she replied. “I thought of you while I was reading his maxims and made sure you would agree."

  “With the cynical, venomous old rascal,” Clare added agreeably.

  “Just so."

  “Tell me, which of his maxims brought me to mind. I can think of nothing more interesting than a discussion of myself."

  “It was rather the tone of them than one particular maxim."

  “Cynical. No, really. Is that what you think of me?"

  “Well, not precisely, but I think that is what you would like people to think of you,” she said.

  He walked around the rose bushes to join her. “Perhaps I give that impression. I hope you are coming to know me better.” He took her hand, indicating that she was to be seated again on the stone bench.

  She remained standing. “Oh, yes, now that I have seen you ruthlessly ordering your guests about and making fun of them—us, behind our backs, I have a much truer picture of your cha
racter. And I prefer not to sit on that dreadful, hard, and very cold bench,” she added.

  “Let us take a stroll then, and see if we can find a rosebush that is not totally destroyed. Strange you did not find the bench uncomfortable before my arrival, by the way,” he said, to add a little fuel to the discussion.

  “I found it so uncomfortable that I was about to leave when you came. But then a man who will put stone benches in his rose garden obviously has not the comfort of his guests in mind. At Fairmont we have lovely little wicker settees."

  “Which must be brought in every time rain threatens, or they squawk like a beaten dog when you sit on them,” he riposted.

  “Yes, they do squawk a little,” she admitted, “but they do not cause a chill to the marrow of your bones at least."

  “If you have taken a chill, Miss Fairmont, I shall personally bring you a posset, or embrocation, or whatever treatment you require,” he bowed formally. “What was recommended in that one book you read by—Doctor Ward was it?"

  “He most particularly advised staying away from stone benches."

  He smiled, and they walked on, but he soon remembered Strayward's imminent arrival, and the smile faded from his face.

  “Is it the prospect of my taking ill that has put you in the hips so suddenly?” she rallied, “or the even more awful one of your having to quack me?"

  “Neither. I know you were bamming me, of course. It's something else entirely."

  “You are thrown into the dismals at the thought of your party breaking up perhaps?"

  “No, it is rather the addition to my party that frightens me."

  “Strayward? Is he so bad as that? He seems a harmless enough sort, from what I have seen of him about town."

  “Well, he isn't coming for the fun of the drive, you know."

  Ella had a pretty good idea why he was coming, but hardly felt in a position to say anything, though she did feel Clare wished to discuss it with her, which was singularly flattering.

  “It is this damn ... diabolical Prattle that has put about the idea I instituted this party to choose a bride.” Ella winced, but as Clare was looking in the direction of the road, he did not observe it. “Well, I can tell you she is not the bride I have in mind."

  “Have you one in mind then?” Ella asked, alarmed.

  “Oh yes,” he smiled, and looked at her so oddly that she felt weak.

  She hardly knew what she was saying. “Well, I think you overestimate yourself, milord. I doubt that Honor would even accept an offer now that the truth is out. That you are a Whig, I mean."

  “Not a chance. I might be an anarchist for all she'd care."

  “Upon my word, you have a good opinion of yourself, sir! Do you think anyone in the whole world would be happy to accept you, whatever your faults?"

  “But what faults could possibly override my eligibility?” he asked, only half-joking, she feared. “I cannot think, offhand, of anyone who would not accept me."

  “Well I would not! And neither would Miss Prattle,” she said, unsure whether he was joking or not, for while he was not smiling, he did not appear totally serious, either. There seemed to be some hint of playfulness about his lips.

  “Would you not, Miss Fairmont?” he asked, quite struck at the possibility. “Extraordinary.” Seeing her state of uncertainty, and wishing to goad her a little further, he said, “Well, I think you would, and I make no doubt I could bring Prattle round my thumb too, if I had a mind to."

  “I never heard such conceit in my life!” she expostulated, half laughing.

  “Do you deem it conceit in me to think myself worthy of a common gossipmonger, who makes her livelihood purveying lies about her betters? Or is it only yourself you consider to be above my touch?"

  “I didn't mean that!” she gasped, stung more by his castigation of Prattle than the latter part regarding herself.

  “Then what did you mean, for that is certainly what you said."

  “I—I only mean it is conceited in you to say such things openly, even if you do think them."

  “I am lacking in hypocrisy, in fact. Certainly a grave deficiency in a gentleman."

  “I didn't mean that either. Oh, it is horrid of you to say so. You are only trying to make me angry."

  “And do you know, I think I am succeeding better than I expected. You should allow your temper to run away with you more often. The flush becomes you.” Naturally she flushed more deeply at this sudden compliment.

  Into the pause that followed, a clatter of hooves was heard approaching.

  “Oh, God, it's Strayward,” Clare said, in a resigned voice. “What damnable timing!” Then he suddenly smiled and said, “We shall continue this discussion on whether or not you will marry me another time. I'd better go and welcome him.” In a sardonic voice he added, “And you accused me of a lack of hypocrisy."

  The color deserted Ella's cheeks, and she was left with her mouth hanging open. He could not be serious! It was all a joke, of course. Clare strode round to the front of the building, and it was Ella who went in at the east door, in a trance, her mind boggled at the conversation she had just held.

  A short, pudgy gentleman of middle years descended from the elegant black traveling carriage with the Strayward crest on the panel. Strayward was even shorter than his stubby wife, but they were so seldom in each other's company that it was no inconvenience. He wore a well-cut blue jacket and faun trousers, but there was no hope of fashion with such an unfortunate physique. His face was round and his cheeks rosy.

  “Clare, my boy,” he said in a hearty voice, offering his hand. “Nice to see you. Are you taking good care of my girls, heh?"

  “I trust they have been tolerably amused, sir,” he replied, shaking the hand that was stretched out to him.

  “Ho, amused! I should say so. Yes, indeed. That little vixen of mine, Lady Cynthia—no, or is it Honor you have here?"

  “Lady Honor."

  “Yes, yes, so it is, the saucy minx. She is always amused. Anything amuses her."

  “It certainly takes very little to keep her entertained,” Clare agreed.

  “And my lady? How does Eleanor go on?"

  “Fine, sir. Will you not step in and see them?"

  “I'll see you first, Clare, what? We have some arrangements to make—business arrangements."

  Clare felt the noose slip a little tighter about his neck and unconsciously tugged at his cravat. “Let us not discuss politics on an empty stomach,” he replied with studied obtuseness.

  “Politics? No, I didn't mean that. Never discuss politics with a Whig. They don't know anything about politics. But you ain't political, Clare. No one ever said that of you."

  This was meant for a compliment, Clare assumed, and he nodded.

  “No,” Strayward rattled on, linking his arm in Clare's, “I didn't mean political business.” They proceeded towards the house. Looking around the grounds, he continued, “Fine place you have here. Very fine place. Next to Strayward I cannot think of a place I like better. Blenheim is a barn of a place. I hate yellow buildings, but your place is very fine. She will like it."

  There could be no misreading this hint. Clare actually felt the flesh creep on his back. He said nothing but suddenly regretted he had not rushed on and made a direct offer to Miss Fairmont.

  They entered through the double portals to the hall, and Strayward said, “Shall we talk now or later?"

  “What is it you wish to discuss, sir?” Clare asked, with a blank look on his face.

  “Why—why business, to be sure."

  “Yes, so you mentioned, but I am at a loss to know what business you refer to."

  “The settlement, of course."

  “Settlement of what?” Clare asked, trying earnestly to sound sincere and uninformed.

  “By Jove, I must speak to Eleanor,” Strayward said, a little embarrassed and not in the least happy. “I understood you and Cynthia—thought it was all settled."

  “Cynthia?” Clare asked, in no real doubt,
despite Strayward's inability to distinguish between his daughters.

  “T'other one then, whoever is here with Eleanor."

  “Ah, Lady Honor."

  “Yes, yes, that's it. Honor."

  The butler had rung for a footman at the gentlemen's entrance, and he now appeared. “Would you like to go directly to your room, sir, or would you care for a glass of wine first?” Clare asked.

  “I'll go up to my room. Might have a bottle sent up, if you'd be so kind."

  “A pleasure. Claret, or..."

  “Brandy,” Strayward said firmly. If he had come here on a fool's errand, a hundred miles out of his way, he would need more than claret to keep his temper.

  “See to it,” Clare said to the footman, then to Strayward he added, “We dine at seven-thirty, sir. We are holding a ball this evening to entertain the ladies. You will not want the bother of dressing twice."

  “Knee breeches,” Strayward muttered unhappily. “I daresay my man packed them.” As he hobbled up the grand staircase, he was grumbling to himself about getting decked out in a monkey suit and silk stockings, and all for nothing. Clare breathed a sigh of relief. But he knew his relief was only temporary. They wouldn't give up on him so easily.

  He remembered that he had intended to look at the ballroom and went there before going upstairs to change. He looked around at the large baskets of flowers and ferns and didn't see a thing.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The guests at Clare Palace were to sit down to dinner in the great dining hall at 7:30. This evening, the dinner and ball formed the highlight of the visit, and comprised the one event to which more than a casual attention had been paid. The ladies had all kept their most elaborate gowns for this night, and it was on this occasion they felt, or at least hoped, that Clare would announce which of the ladies had won his favor. There was no real reason to believe he would do so, but by constantly talking of it among themselves, they had kept the hope alive. To be sure, he had an opportunity to see each of them alone, should he desire it; both Sherry and Belle were downstairs, rigged to the nines, by seven o'clock. When Belle could not find him, she conceived the plan of going to his office, where he spent much of his time, to ask him if he had seen the ballroom. She felt it to be an inferior sort of excuse, but such speed and cunning were necessary to evade Sherry that she had only a second and half a mind to think about it.