A Christmas Gambol

by Joan Smith

  “If Fairly cannot dance, then surely the play—”

  “But could anyone see the sling when we are just sitting in a box? Of course he would rest his arm on the ledge, but it is rather dark.”

  “Ah, then in that case, the rout would be better medicine. I plan to take Sissie to Radcliffe’s.”

  “She didn’t say so,” Meg said.

  “Did she not get my note before she left?” he asked. Meg didn’t know. “I plan to ask her, at any rate. That’s why I am here.”

  He poured himself a glass of wine and tried to make sensible conversation with the Fairlys. The quarter of an hour until Sissie’s return seemed end­less. He felt that a morning of Gresham’s prosing pomposity might be enough to show Sissie the man was a consummate bore. But when she finally ar­rived, her eyes were shining. Her whole face seemed lit up from within.

  “You will never guess what!” she exclaimed, even before saying good day. For one absurd moment, Montaigne felt she had had an offer. “I am going to write a skit for the Christmas pantomime at Covent Garden!” she continued. “Did you ever hear of anything so marvelous? Sir Giles introduced me to a Mr. Palin, who is in charge of it. He—Mr. Palin— was lamenting the lack of some light entr’acte filler, and Sir Giles said that I had a light touch and a great facility for words.”

  “I thought a pantomime didn’t have words,” Fairly said.

  “It didn’t used to have, but it’s grown into a sort of fairy tale, with singing and dancing and jokes,” Ci­cely explained. “The role of the principal boy is al­ways played by a woman, and the dame by a man, to add to the humor, you see.”

  “By Jove, that sounds good! I do like a masquer­ade.” Fairly smiled.

  “How will you write it in time for Christmas?” Montaigne demanded. “The actors will have to rehearse.”

  “It’s only a short skit,” Sissie told him. “I can write it in a day or two. I have dozens of ideas.”

  Montaigne felt that as it was Chaos that had given Sissie the credentials for the job, it should be himself who wrote it, but with Fairly in the room, he couldn’t say so. He attacked on a different front.

  “You’ll send the work from Elmdale, will you? That might be awkward. They’re bound to want changes. They always do.”

  “Silly!” Meg said. “She will stay here.”

  Cicely looked her gratitude. “Would I be a terrible nuisance, Meg? I could ask Anne to come. We would put up at a cheap hotel. It would only be for a few days. I daresay Anne would enjoy it.”

  “What of your papa?” Montaigne asked, though he felt a twinge of pity at that “cheap hotel.” “Anne never likes to leave him alone.”

  “It’s not as though he were ill. For a special occa­sion like this, he wouldn’t mind.”

  “Rubbish! You’re staying here,” Fairly insisted.

  Montaigne felt a deep-seated aversion to the scheme. Russel Palin was a well-known womanizer. He felt in his bones it was Sissie’s looks, not her (or his own) talent that had won her the commission. How could he look after her if she was hobnobbing about Covent Garden with rakes and actors?

  “What had Gresham to say about it?” he asked, sensing that that pretentious bore would despise the scheme.

  “He was delighted for me. Oh, and he has agreed to read Georgiana. I gave him my copy.” The Fairlys looked at her in confusion. “That is the title of my book. I told you about it, Montaigne.”

  “I thought it was called Chaos Is Here,” Fairly said, frowning.

  “No, no, not that horrid thing,” Sissie said. “It is another book I have written.”

  “Another? By Jove, you are a caution, Sissie. Dashed off another already, eh? And a pantomime as well. Grind ‘em out like sausages. Sit down and tell us all about it. We are bored to flinders.”

  Meg sensed her esposo was becoming irritable with the lack of company and took her decision. “You must have a good lie-down to prepare for the rout this evening, Fairly. I shall ask Coddle to bring us up a bottle of wine.”

  “Then it is to be the rout?” he asked, brightening.

  “No one would see us at the theater. You must tell me what gown to wear.” She rose and tenderly as­sisted her husband to his feet. With Meg’s arm around his waist, he hobbled off.

  Montaigne poured Cicely a glass of wine. When he handed it to her, he sat beside her. “So Gresham has condescended to have a look at your book, eh?”

  “Not just to read it, but to analyze it and tell me how to improve it. It is very kind of him, for he is excessively busy with his work on the Edinburgh Review.”

  Montaigne gritted his teeth and continued civilly. “How did you enjoy your drive through the fleshpots of London? I trust Gresham didn’t steal my thunder and take you to visit the shops?”

  A small frown creased her brow. “We didn’t even drive by the fleshpots. Sir Giles had to pick up some books at Hatchard’s. We spent the morning there, where we met Mr. Palin. It was excessively interest­ing. Sir Giles has recommended dozens of books I ought to read. I have written them down.”

  “With a translation of the classics into English heading the list. Then you will be writing your papa to tell him you have been invited to stay a little longer. It has occurred to me that you should at­tend a few fashionable parties as well—for your research.”

  Her eyes glowed with pleasure. “I should like it of all things. I feared that with Fairly malingering I would hardly get my nose out the door, but it seems they are attending a rout this evening. Do you think they mean to take me along?”

  “I doubt it has so much as crossed their collective minds that they have a guest in the house. I wrote you a note asking you to go to Lady Radcliffe’s rout this evening with me.”

  A look of pleasure and surprise beamed out. “Really? I must have left before it came. Thank you, Montaigne. I should love to go. I shall feel guilty, knowing Sir Giles is spending his evening reading my novel while I dance the night away.”

  “I hoped he would be writing his review of Chaos” Montaigne said, his lips thinning in annoyance at her harping on Gresham.

  “He has already done that. He speaks well of the book. He has given me a rough copy. Would you like to see it?” She drew a crumpled page from her reti­cule and handed it to him.

  He took it eagerly. As his eyes scanned the page, his first smile dwindled to dissatisfaction. Such condescending phrases as “a more than acceptable effort from a young girl” and “a facility for phrasing that saves a trite plot from ennui” were hardly flattering.

  “I wonder what you would consider a bad review,” he said when he had finished.

  “Considering the nature of the novel, it is not at all bad. He takes only one stab at the violet eyes, you see. ‘A little unnecessary reliance on physical appearance.’ I am sure his attack would have been more venomous if I had not turned him up sweet.”

  Again Montaigne felt that burning sensation in his chest. “May one ask how you accomplished that—in plain daylight, in Hatchard’s bookshop? Dumped the butter boat on him, eh?”

  “The review was written last night, actually.” She gave Montaigne a saucy look and added, “If I had had another visit to work on him, no doubt he would have proclaimed the book a marvel.”

  “You sound remarkably confident of your charms.”

  “And you, sir, sound remarkably peevish, consid­ering that I am doing you a favor, not vice versa. You didn’t even congratulate me on getting the assignment to write the pantomime but only started hinting in that odious way that I was overstaying my welcome.”

  Montaigne realized he was in the wrong and felt churlish for his behavior. “If I forgot to congratulate you, I am sorry.”

  “You did. I thought you would be happy for me. Sir Giles was thrilled to death. He thinks that with work and guidance, I could be the next Frances Burney,” she said, smiling shyly.

  It was that smile that goaded Montaigne into an angry outburst. “The guiding hand is to be Sir Giles’s, I daresay? Mind he doesn’
t guide you into oblivion. He has been trying to peddle his own novel for two years. A great, thundering bore of a book. No doubt that is why he went to that do last night, to ingratiate Murray.”

  “How can you be so horrid, Montaigne?” she charged. Unshed tears sprang to her eyes. Embar­rassed, she brushed them away with the back of her hand, like a child. “He has been excessively kind to me. What chance would I ever have had to write for Covent Garden were it not for his introducing me to Mr. Palin?”

  “I wager it was your beaux yeux that got you the commission, not Gresham’s clout. Your looks and my book—the book I asked you to pose as the author of,” he added hastily. Sissie was upset and didn’t notice the slip.

  “I daresay Chaos had something to do with it,” she allowed. “In fact, Mr. Palin said as much, but I know I can do it. It will be good advertising for my own book, when it comes out. If it comes out, I mean. If Sir Giles likes it.”

  “It is not Sir Giles you have to please! I told Mur­ray I’d send him the book today. When is Gresham to return it?”

  “When he finishes reading it. He’s very busy.”

  “Busy poking his nose in where it isn’t wanted. And on top of it all, you’re using him.”

  “You were happy enough when I used him to give Chaos a good review! Why shouldn’t I use his influ­ence to help myself as well as your Aunt Ethel? And I’m not using him. We are friends. Friends are happy to help each other—as I am helping you by being here.”

  Montaigne opened his mouth to continue arguing but could suddenly find nothing to say. He had en­couraged her to make use of Gresham to puff off Chaos. Sissie was doing him a favor, and she was a friend. He should be happy for her. Why did he feel this aching worry to think of her working for Palin?

  “Palin is a notorious womanizer,” he said. “You want to watch yourself with him.”

  She looked at him with a question in her eyes. “Is that what’s worrying you, Montaigne? As if he’d bother with me when he is surrounded by beautiful actresses all day. I shan’t be seeing much of Palin, in any case. He’s one of the managers, but he only chooses the author. It is the director I will be working with. A Mr. Moore, who, Sir Giles tells me, is an elderly gentleman.”

  “If Gresham called him elderly, he must be an­cient. Just keep your distance from Palin,” he said.

  She glared but refused to rise to the bait. “Are you staying for lunch?” she asked.

  “No, I just dropped in early to let you know about Lady Radcliffe’s rout party. I didn’t want Gresham to get in before me.” As he studied her, a soft, bright smile lit his eyes. “Sorry if I’ve behaved like a brute. It has been a rather difficult morning at the House. I shouldn’t have said those things about Gresham.”

  “I’m sure his book is thrilling.”

  “Oh, no, it’s a dead loss. Murray has read it. I meant the remarks about his age. Personal com­ments are never in good taste. The poor blighter can’t help it if he came off the ark.”

  “Before you betray your lack of breeding by any more slights on my friend, I shall relieve you of the fear you might meet him this evening by informing you he’s to attend a lecture.” She rose and gave him her hand. “Thank you for taking me to the rout, Montaigne. It will be very useful material.”

  “You might even enjoy yourself,” he suggested.

  “Yes indeed. There is nothing I enjoy so much as working. And this afternoon I shall be spying out the secrets of Bond Street. Papa gave me fifty pounds, and Anne and I between us scraped to­gether another fifty, so my pockets are deep. I may even buy myself something.”

  This speech sounded so pathetic that Montaigne felt like an ogre for having ripped up at her. This trip to London was Sissie’s higher education, her university. He was suddenly happy for her that it had been prolonged.

  “I shall call for you at three,” he said and took his leave, feeling somewhat reassured. Sissie was see­ing Gresham only to help with her writing. “Work­ing” she called it. No harm in that. Montaigne was being a dog in the manger, trying to deprive her of her opportunity. He’d point out all the Incomparables to her at the rout and introduce her to the more amusing rakes and rattles. No chance of that mawworm Gresham being at Lady Radcliffe’s, at least.

  It did not occur to him that the Duke and Duchess of Morland might be there. He met them every­where, and was beginning to overcome the sense of gêne at the encounters, but with Sissie’s sharp eyes to scout out his secret, he hoped to avoid the Morlands.

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  When a minor crisis arose at Whitehall that after­noon, Brougham called a meeting of the Whig shadow cabinet. After Montaigne’s dereliction that morning, he didn’t feel he could miss it. He wrote a note apologizing to Cicely and postponing the trip to Bond Street until the next day. She was relieved to receive it. The sky was overcast, and between riding out with Gresham in the morning and the rout in the evening, she hadn’t left herself any time to work on the pantomime.

  What she had in mind was a comical piece in which the hero was against Christmas, and his dame contrived all the usual decorations, food, and festivities by a series of pretexts and excuses that became more ludicrous as the piece progressed. This allowed for musical numbers by the carolers and a bit of comedy by the mummers. It would end with the usual Christmas dinner in a fully decorated din­ing room, with the hero, played by a lady, assuring his dame that Christmas was all humbug. They had had a perfectly fine day without all that stuff and nonsense.

  Once Cicely began work, the thing fairly wrote it­self. She had a rough copy by five o’clock. Another day or two to polish it and add some more jokes, and she could give it to Mr. Palin in plenty of time for re­hearsals on Monday. She was in buoyant spirits for the rout party that evening.

  The Fairlys were also in good spirits, anticipating another performance as invalid and nurse. When his wife was courting him, as she was on the evening of Lady Radcliffe’s rout party, Fairly paid little heed to other ladies. Had the rout occurred during one of their tiffs, he would have been enchanted with Cicely’s appearance.

  She wore her chestnut locks drawn to one side, tethered with a white rosebud. Curls bounced saucily against her shoulder. The peach-colored gown of Italian crape with the silver net overskirt, which she borrowed from her hostess, looked quite ravishing on her. With Anne’s small string of dia­monds to add the final touch of glitter, Cicely was all the crack.

  Fairly scarcely glanced at her, but when Lord Montaigne arrived, he looked across the room at the apparition, came to a dead stop, and stared in bla­tant admiration tinged with astonishment.

  “Don’t look like that!” Cicely scowled, when he ad­vanced to make his bow. “I know I look abandoned, but all of Meg’s gowns are like this.”

  “Strange, they never looked like this on Meg,” he murmured.

  “Sissie has done us proud, has she not, Monty?” Meg said. “I shan’t blush to sponsor her into Society.”

  “I shall blush like a blue pig!” Sissie said, glanc­ing unhappily at the fulsome expanse of bosom above her gown.

  “If you could contrive to be less conscious of your—er, bodice,” Montaigne said, caught between a frown and a grin, “then others will not be so aware of it. Remember Lady Godiva.”

  “I expect you’re right. Once I am among other seminude ladies, I shan’t feel so exposed.”

  They had a glass of sherry and were off to Lady Radcliffe’s. Montaigne took Cicely in his carriage, as the Fairlys had spoken of darting along to a couple of other dos after they had exhausted the admira­tion of the Radcliffe party.

  Cicely gazed all about at the elegant West End mansions as they drove along to Half Moon Street. When they reached their destination, she made a mental note of the torches flaming in front of the house to lighten the guests’ path. The entrance hall, decked out like a summer flower garden—and for only a simple rout—left her speechless.

  “I am the only lady here not wearing a fur wrap!” she whisp
ered to Montaigne when he helped her re­move her woolen pelisse.

  “Fortunate you don’t have to wear your wrap into the ballroom. No one will know.”

  “They will notice I am the only lady wearing chicken-skin arms. It was chilly outside.”

  As her arms looked fine to Montaigne, he took her remark for a case of the jitters.

  When they entered the ballroom, Cicely had to make a conscious effort to keep her mouth closed. She had never seen so many precious jewels, such expanses of silks and satins and female flesh, so many quizzing glasses lifted to examine her until she felt like the bearded lady at the traveling fair. Nor had she ever smelled such a stifling miasma of heady perfumes, all aromas competing to overpower the olfactory sense.

  “The assembly at home is nothing to this,” she said in an awed voice, as she gazed around like a regular Johnny Raw.

  Montaigne inclined his head to hers and inquired softly, “Do you still feel nude?”

  “Ye-e-es,” she said uncertainly, “but at least I look like the other ladies. I should feel like a complete dowd if I had worn a decent, modest gown.”

  The cotillion was in progress when they arrived, so that their first moments were spent mixing with other guests who had come late. Before long, Ci­cely’s attention was caught by a young lady so startlingly beautiful she took the breath away. Hair with the jetty iridescence of a crow’s wing swept back from a noble brow. The complexion was ivory, tinged with pale rose on the full cheeks. Cherry-ripe lips opened to reveal a set of perfect pearly teeth. A sequin-spangled gown of white lent an angelic touch to the vision. One felt there ought to be wings sprouting from her shoulders. Cicely couldn’t detect the color of the eyes from across the room, though she could see they were large and wide set.

  She tugged at Montaigne’s elbow and asked, “Who is that beguiling creature with the little man in the burgundy jacket?”

  Monty followed her glance across the room. When he beheld the Duchess of Morland, his body stiff­ened. “The gentleman with her is her husband. They’re the Morlands,” he said, trying for a tone of indifference.