Escapade

by Joan Smith

  “Bippy, will you come with me to the study for a moment? There are ten minutes before the next dance, and I should like a nice quiet sit-down to rest my head and feet."

  He could hardly refuse and in fact had no desire to do so, as it was not every day a fashionable lady of the first stare like Lady Sara requested his escort. They sailed off together, while Ella's heart first sank, then rose unaccountably to her throat.

  “We should have one dance together, for the looks of it,” Clare said, when they had been deserted.

  “Do you think it necessary?” Ella asked, in the tone of one long inured to self-sacrifice in the common good.

  “Preferable, not necessary,” he returned, with an air of the greatest indifference.

  “Very well."

  “I expect I ought to thank you for putting in an appearance,” Clare continued. “Your aunt tells me it was done to save my face."

  “To save unnecessary gossip."

  “And my proposal—no, no, don't cringe, I am not about to repeat it—is to be explained as a joke in very poor taste?"

  “I think it best, yes."

  “As you wish, though I still fail to see why you consider the mere offer such an insult that it must be kept hidden at all costs.” His voice, formerly indifferent, was gaining emotion as he spoke, and Ella had to make an effort to keep her own calm.

  “I am only thinking of yourself."

  “One rejection is not likely to sink me entirely. Or perhaps my monstrous arrogance leads me astray in the matter?"

  “I prefer we do it in this way,” Ella said and gave no further explanation.

  “If you will pardon my making a suggestion, Miss Prattle, you would do yourself a greater service if you admitted I had asked you. Yes, don't goggle—I give you carte blanche to print it up in your column. It will not detract from your consequence to have refused me."

  “No, indeed,” she replied, goaded by both his tone and words, “to have refused you must be a strong testament to my judgment."

  “It would help to counteract the infamy of your position as Miss Prattle, in any case."

  “You cannot mean to tell anyone!"

  “How unhandsome that would be in me. But there is no matching me for gall, you know.” Sara, of course, had relayed that phrase to him.

  “I came to your ball to try to make up for any harm I have done you as Miss Prattle. If you tell a soul, I will never forgive you!"

  “And take a lifelong vengeance by scribbling the lot up in your column to bore society."

  “You are hateful!” she said.

  “This bickering is pointless. Let us go on to the ballroom, if you're up to it."

  “I'm up to anything you are, so you needn't think me lacking in nerve."

  “I of all people ought not to accuse of that,” he returned, and they walked off together to the ballroom, to show the world by their scowling faces and utter lack of conversation with each other, that they were on the best of terms. They confirmed the lie by taking a cold, formal leave the minute the music stopped, and by not so much as glancing at each other during the remainder of the evening.

  Still, they had been seen together, and so the affair passed over as a nine-hour's wonder. Neither the Sheridans nor the Prentisses had the least desire to puff Miss Fairmont up by bruiting such a story about, and the gentlemen were none of them keen gossips. Naturally both Miss Fairmont and Miss Prattle were mute on the subject, and so the principals scraped through with only their feelings battered.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The guests, with the exception of the Straywards, were all preparing to leave first thing in the morning. By setting out early, only one night would have to be spent at an inn, and even getting little sleep after a ball was preferable to repeating this experience two nights in a row. The young gentlemen had some thoughts of making London that same night. No private farewells were taken by anyone. Clare and his mother went to the lawn to give and receive thanks and wave their handkerchiefs as the various vehicles bowled down the drive. Ella was not distinguished from the others by either more or less attention from the host. If his smile was a shade less warm for her than for some of the others, his Mama's was warmer, and Ella could not even have the satisfaction of feeling slighted. She leaned back against the squabs of the carriage, heaved a vast sigh of relief, then immediately bounced forward to have one last look at the grounds as the trip home was begun. Crazy Nellie's Tower, tilting a little, the Oriental Pavilion, the pond—each dredged up a memory, and brought a lump to her throat. She would see them no more. It was a sad end to the visit, but at least it was an end, and the process of forgetting could begin.

  Sara, eager to discuss the visit, took one look at the Friday face on her niece and refrained from discussion. She closed her eyes and pretended to sleep, though her mind was busy with schemes to throw the pair together when they got back to London. Clare would not be far behind them, she surmised.

  The Duchess was not so considerate of her son. He too looked to be in a bad skin, but she lit into him the minute they were reseated at the breakfast table, over a fresh cup of coffee.

  “Now, Master Jackanapes, I would like you to tell me what you meant by last night's disgraceful performance."

  “It's no point pretending you refer to anything but my proposal to Ella, I suppose?” he replied.

  “No point in the least. What possessed you to do such a ramshackle thing to the poor girl?"

  “Strangely enough, I did not consider an offer of marriage a ramshackle thing. I am at a loss to know why it has everyone in the boughs."

  “It was the way of it, Patrick, so public and unseemly, to a shy girl like Ella. Belle Prentiss now, or Sherry, would have been in alt. Belle would have answered you in verse on the spot and painted up a picture of it afterwards to set on the wall. Sherry would have run to a mirror to admire the stars in her eyes, but Ella ... And besides, no one seems to think it was a real proposal, and to make fun of her with a mock proposal—but I know that's not what you meant, whatever the others think."

  “I hope I am not such a loose screw as that."

  “Well, of course you ain't, Patrick. It's this Prattle creature who has given you such a black reputation."

  “I hold Prattle largely responsible,” he replied curtly.

  “Still, that is in no way Ella's fault, and you have treated her shabbily. Now, I have been thinking what it is best to do,” she continued contentedly, “and I think you must run up to London as soon as we get the Strayward ménage blasted off, and make it up with Ella. Lady Sara will stand your ally."

  “No, that is quite impossible,” he said firmly.

  “Nonsense. Nothing is impossible if you set about it in the right way. You took her by surprise. You must have. She was not expecting an offer on such short acquaintance. No person of any sense or sensibility would credit you were serious anyway, just blurting it out like that, out of the blue. And speaking of sense and sensibility reminds me, don't forget to get Miss Austen's books for me. Oh, Patrick, the very thing! I have Miss Fairmont's copy of Pride and Prejudice. What an excellent excuse to call on her!"

  “Have you indeed?” he asked. From the interested tone, the “quite impossible” seemed to be now capable of consideration at least. “Certainly it must be returned,” he allowed.

  “Yes, there is nothing so annoying as losing a favorite book. And very likely she took your book on Kant with her and will have an excuse to see you too or, at least, write a note."

  “No, she will most certainly have left it behind."

  “I'll send a boy up to her room right now to see. Arking!” She executed the command, and in five minutes Kant's Critique of Pure Reason was being handed to her.

  “Gudgeon,” she grumbled.

  “She is not looking for an excuse to be in touch with me,” Clare pointed out.

  “I wonder how soon we might expect the Straywards to leave,” he said, looking at his watch. Leaving in his curricle, he might even overtake Sara's coach
before they got to London.

  “He got to bed early enough,” the Dowager replied meaningfully. “Passed out at the table, I suppose?"

  “Yes, he can't have kept his head up two minutes after the ladies left."

  “Pity he didn't conk out before dinner, pest of a man. Really they are too pushing for anything. I wonder whom they'll sic Honor onto next."

  There was no time for a reply. The entire Strayward family came into the room together at that moment. The answer was soon discovered, as soon as everyone had said good morning.

  “We are dropping by Welmere on our way to London,” Strayward told them. Welmere, the family seat of Lord Buchan, Earl of Buchan and Baron Rawdon, could by no manner of computation be considered as “on the way to London,” being twenty-five miles due north. “Buchan ain't engaged or anything, is he?"

  “Not to my knowledge, sir,” Clare answered promptly, a vast weight slipping from his back. A great fear had seized him that Strayward would return to the attack on himself, once he saw he was not really engaged.

  “How old a man would you say he is?” the Marchioness asked.

  “Not a day over forty,” Clare replied, skimming a mere ten years from the man's probable age.

  “That's all right then,” the Marchioness said. Honor was twenty, give or take a year.

  “Are they Tories, Papa?” Honor asked, with the intention of insulting the Duke.

  “Funny thing, that. Don't know what they are,” the papa replied, frowning.

  “Tories,” the Dowager informed them, though she hadn't the least notion what they were.

  “Good,” Honor replied, feeling herself to be very witty and sarcastic. She then dug into a hearty breakfast to sustain her till they reached Welmere.

  Clare entertained the hope that he would be able to get away within the hour, but the dilatory family sat discussing Buchan, his relations, Welmere, and relevant matters for an hour, and then startled the host and hostess by asking to be shown the library. Clare feared a long wait was in store, but it was only one book they wished to see. They asked Mr. Shane for Debrett's Peerage, and the three of them poured over it, quite shamelessly discussing the points of Welmere, and whether Buchan was up to Lady Honor's weight, genealogically speaking. He was inferior to Clare in all but politics and availability, but they settled on him nonetheless.

  “We'll cut up to Welmere then,” Strayward decided.

  “Do you know him at all?” his wife asked.

  Clare and his Mama exchanged a wild eye and were hard pressed to keep a straight face.

  “If he's a Tory, I must have met him,” the husband replied, and with this hypothetical acquaintance they finally went, to impose themselves on a stranger for an unspecified length of time.

  “I don't believe what I have just seen and heard,” the Dowager said, when they were alone.

  “Old Buchan is fat and gouty, and might very well relish a young morsel like Honor,” Clare returned, smiling.

  “And will he be to her taste? The right flavor anyway—Tory."

  Back at Grosvenor Square the next afternoon, Ella gave a deep thought to her position and came to a conclusion. The Season was nearing completion. She would continue being Miss Prattle till June 1, to complete her contract with Thorndyke. Information would be gathered from Sara and her grandmother, for she herself would go no more into society. Naturally, Clare's name would not appear in the column. She had already set on Lord Byron as his successor. On June 1 she would return to Fairmont, to return no more to London, but to occupy herself with the long-delayed start on her novel. This left two interminable weeks to be endured before her departure.

  Clare got a late start from his palace, but arrived in London very shortly after Sara and Ella, with the help of his well-matched grays. He went home, changed, took up Ella's copy of Pride and Prejudice and decided to have lunch at a club before making his call. Lady Sara, eager to go out and make up for lost time by a few visits, had the carriage called and took her mother with her. Ella stayed home, giving instructions to the butler to say she was not at home. So when the Duke came with her book in his hands, it was taken by Greeves, who informed His Grace he would make sure Miss Fairmont received it. When pressed for information as to where Miss Fairmont might be found, Greeves prevaricated that “the ladies” were out visiting. Some considerable driving about town was required before Lady Sara's town chaise was spotted, but not much looking was necessary to see Ella was not in it. Clare pulled up and exchanged polite inquiries as to the safe arrival back in town of his guests.

  “We are fine,” Sara told him happily. “Ella is at home. She decided not to come with us.” She hoped he might take the hint to go and see her, if such was his intention, while she was alone.

  “I see,” he said and soon drove off. What he saw, of course, was that Miss Fairmont had left instructions she was not at home to him, and he took instant umbrage. A few acquaintances waved to him as he passed, and one friend hailed him up for a chat.

  “Hear you've been having some gay old times at Clare,” Mr. Best roasted, with a leer.

  “Ah, you have been reading Prattle,” Clare laughed, though any reminder of that character stung him. “Well, I fear it was only an indifferent visit,” he admitted.

  “For the guests maybe. We read you was pretty well entertained with your Hebe. Who is she, eh? And more importantly, old boy, did you bring her back with you?"

  “I beg your pardon?” Clare asked, searching his mind for what this seeming non sequitur was all about.

  “Oh, you're a sly one. You left her behind to polish the golden apple, eh? That was too bad of you, Clare. One of us would have been glad to take her off your hands. Any of your lightskirts would be worth a look. Well, toodle-oo. I'm off to Tatt's."

  Clare drove home in a quandary, at a complete loss to understand the remark. Before he reached Belgrave Square, another friend made comments of a similar cast. Whatever Ella had written, it obviously had the town in an uproar.

  He demanded the last week's copies of the Morning Observer the minute he was in the door, and went to his study to peruse them. The early copies he had already seen at Clare. The next couple seemed innocuous enough. He was not best pleased to read of himself as being slightly less than an indifferent jouster, but it could by no means account for what was being said around town. Then his hand fell on the fatal paper, and picking it up he read:

  We have good reason to believe that the three young ladies are no more than a smoke screen to cover his true reason for deserting us in mid-season. It is no goddess he is wooing, but a mere Hebe. We have it of a first-hand witness at C—e that the damsel is unlikely ever to wear a coronet, a mobcap being her present headgear. Are you all agog to see Hebe? You may have the opportunity, when the dreary party at C—e breaks up, if His Grace has not tired of his new protégé by then, and decided to leave her behind with her dustrag, to polish the golden apple for next year. Ho hum, now for some interesting news.

  The paper fell from his hand, and he stood staring at it, as though it were a live, terrible thing. His lips were white with fury, yet he sat down calmly and sorted through the remaining papers. A few mild comments about his house party, but no further reference to Hebe. His anger was bad enough, but added to it was a sense of confusion. What on earth was she talking about? Miss Prattle's barbs always stung, but even if misdirected, there was some truth behind them. This, the worst she had ever written, was completely fictitious. His first impulse was to drive over to Grosvenor Square and demand an explanation. This was closely followed by the memory of his last visit. He would not be admitted peacefully and wouldn't give her the satisfaction of causing a brawl on her doorstep, to be duly recounted in tomorrow's column, no doubt. He grabbed up a pen and dashed off a note.

  Miss Fairmont:

  I would like an explanation of this impertinent piece of libel, or it will be necessary for me to take legal action.

  Yours respectfully, Patrick Beresford, Duke of Clare

  He
tore the offending column from the paper, folded it into the envelope, and sent it off to Grosvenor Square.

  The column was read in other quarters where it caused a great excitement and various plans. The Dowager had read it the day before, shortly after her son left, and wondered with a shrug what Miss Prattle had misunderstood this time. Less emotionally involved, her mind was more precise, and she soon hit upon Prissie Muckleton as the Hebe referred to. The story obviously had come from the palace, and she wondered which of her guests had stumbled on Prissie. She settled on Belle Prentiss as the likeliest perpetrator of the story. Sherry saw it, and wondered for ten minutes what a Hebe was, but she eventually reached the same conclusion as the Duchess. She would make it a point to tell Clare she was not the one who told on him, and it sounded very much like Belle Prentiss.

  Belle, innocent for once, read it and was more amazed than any of them. She knew herself to be innocent, and knew as well that the only one she had told was Ella Fairmont. The gentlemen and Sherry were automatically cleared of suspicion. At first, she thought Ella had mentioned it to someone, which was bad enough, but a checking of the date on the paper, and a computation of the time required to write a letter to London, and the story to percolate to Miss Prattle and be reported soon satisfied her that the story had gone directly from Miss Fairmont to the paper. There was no other way to account for its being printed so soon. She smiled with an anticipatory satisfaction and began laying her plans.

  It must be Ella, but she would verify her suspicion before presenting it to the Duke. Then they would see how he liked Miss Fairmont and her clever pen. Nothing would be more likely to give him an abhorrence of the girl. An unacknowledged admiration for Ella was there, too. Who would ever have thought her capable of such a splendid stunt? All these years she had been going about to parties without claiming the least interest, and here she was Miss Prattle.

  It was read at Grosvenor Square, too, not very long after Lady Sara returned from her drive and visits. She went to her niece's room, her eyes flashing fire, and said, “What is the meaning of this, my young lady?"