by M C Beaton
The meal was exceedingly ornate, and every dish appeared to be in disguise. There were puddings in the form of fowls, fresh cod dressed as salad, and celery like oysters.
Lady Evans, it transpired, was a Bostonian and only lately married, Sir Gareth being her third husband. She declared herself shocked that so much festivity should exist on Saturday evening, informing the Marquess sternly that it was considered a holy time in New England. With a severe glance at the magnificence of the Marquess’s evening dress, she went on to expound the virtues of democratic costume.
She informed the Marquess that in Washington, the Speaker of the House sat in his chair of office wigless and ungowned, and that in summer, the dignitaries of that growing metropolis contented themselves by wearing a white roundabout, a sort of cotton jacket, sans neckcloth, sans stockings, and sometimes sans waistcoat. This did cause a certain amount of controversy, she added, some of the old guard lamenting the sloppiness of government fashion.
“Well,” said the Marquess pacifically, “Mr. Talleyrand did point out that nothing is settled in America, not even the climate.”
Lady Evans laughed. “Fashion has become a political matter. The barbers are all adherents of the Federalists because their leaders wear long queues and powder, whereas the Whigs wear short hair or small queues tied carelessly with a ribbon. When Madison was nominated, a barber burst out, saying to a friend of mine, ‘The country is doomed; what Presidents we might have, sir! Just look at Dagget of Connecticut, or Stockton of New Jersey! What queues they have got, sir! But this little Jim Madison, with a queue no bigger than a pipestem! Sir, it is enough to make a man forswear his country.’ ”
The Marquess looked amused and began to ply Lady Evans with questions about America. When she was talking about her home country, Lady Evans’s normally severe expression relaxed. The Marquess judged that she found English society strange and decadent. She had been in England only since her marriage a year before.
The English approach to religious worship particularly confused her, society paying lip service to a sort of deism illustrated by the vicar of St. James’s in Piccadilly mentioning Jesus Christ at a Christmas service but hurriedly going on to assure his congregation that His name should not be brought up again until the following Christmas.
The Marquess reluctantly realized that Lady Warburton was trying to get his attention.
“My daughters were in high alt at your coming, Lord Merechester,” said Lady Warburton.
“I am flattered,” he replied. Should he ask her about Amaryllis? Or was it better to remain in ignorance?
“We plan to have a little impromptu dance after dinner. Perhaps you will favor us with your company, my lord,” went on Lady Warburton. “There will be cards, of course.”
“I do not dance,” said the Marquess, suddenly irritable. Archness did not become Lady Warburton.
She looked singularly put out. “But we have hired musicians especially for the occasion,” complained Lady Warburton. “We have gone to great expense.”
The Marquess surveyed her steadily. She flushed angrily and added, “Not that I am trying to blackmail you. . . .
“No, my dear lady, I should most certainly hope not,” said the Marquess.
He turned his shoulder and addressed Lady Evans. “How goes the building of Washington?” he asked. “I hear Pennsylvania Avenue is about the only thing they have that can be called a street.”
Lady Warburton looked daggers at his handsome profile. Every penny she spent she regarded as a sort of business investment. She quickly added up the cost of the entertainment, the cost of the girls’ gowns—thank heavens Amaryllis was so clever with her needle!—the cost of the food and the small orchestra. But she could hardly compel the Marquess of Merechester to enjoy himself.
Cissie and Agatha kept rolling their blue eyes in the Marquess’s direction in too obvious a way. She must speak to them about that.
She had cruelly told Amaryllis to wait in the drawing room until the guests had finished dinner. It would do her good to starve a little, she thought, in case Amaryllis should be too much encouraged by food and wine to forget her place, not realizing that at that moment, Amaryllis was tucking into a selection of choice viands, served to her on a tray in the drawing room by the more sympathetic members of the Warburton staff.
Lady Warburton’s busy mind raced on. Amaryllis was undoubtedly an accomplished pianist and singer and would normally be called upon to entertain the company at some point during the evening. But perhaps it would not be a good idea to allow her to star in any way.
After the madeira and ice cream, Lady Warburton rose to lead the ladies to the drawing room, frowing down the table at her husband as a signal that he was not to encourage the gentlemen to linger over their wine.
Lady Warburton had almost made up her mind to send Amaryllis upstairs for the rest of the evening, but the sight of the girl’s quiet and subdued appearance and her busy fingers working at her sewing made her change her mind. Amaryllis Duvane was no longer any threat. One had only to look at the superb beauty and youth of Cissie and Agatha.
Lady Evans made a move as if to join Amaryllis, then changed her mind. Amaryllis had not been introduced to anyone, and so Lady Evans decided she must be some sort of upper servant.
Cissie and Agatha sat and yawned listlessly. Apart from Lady Evans, the two other female guests were a Mrs. Johnston, a Scottish lady of uncertain years, and Mrs. Giles-Denton, whose husband, also one of the guests, was the local Master of Foxhounds.
The gentlemen joined them, and Agatha and Cissie brightened immediately. Apart from the Marquess, Mr. Chalmers, Mr. Giles-Denton, and Sir Gareth-Evans, the remaining member of the male party was the vicar, the Reverend Peter Bascomb.
The Marquess was increasingly annoyed with Lady Warburton for arranging her “impromptu dance.” For the only people who looked as if they might be expected to dance were the Warburton girls and himself and Joseph Chalmers. It was matchmaking at its most blatant.
Almost against his will, he began to make his way to where the mysterious poor relation sat bowed over her sewing. Lady Warburton moved in front of him as the orchestra started to play.
The drawing room opened at the far end into a saloon, where the carpet had been rolled up and the floor french-chalked.
“Cannot I persuade you to change your mind, Lord Merechester?” asked Lady Warburton with a smile which bared all her teeth. “I am sadly short of young gentlemen, I am afraid, and Cissie will be quite devastated if you do not favor her with a dance.”
The Marquess looked over Lady Warburton’s turbaned head and saw with delight that the elderly vicar was leading Cissie into a set. Sir Gareth and Lady Evans had joined them; Joseph Chalmers was escorting Agatha, and Lord Warburton was lumbering forward with Mrs. Johnston.
“It seems as if I shall not be needed, ma’am,” smiled the Marquess. Lady Warburton followed his amused gaze and cast a venomous look at the vicar which put that poor man’s living in immediate jeopardy.
James, the footman, chose that moment to stumble with a tray of cakes, and Lady Warburton strode forward to issue a reprimand.
The Marquess put up his quizzing glass and surveyed the dancers. Cissie smiled bewitchingly at him and lost her place in the set.
Embarrassed, he turned away, and his eyes fell on the silent figure of the companion.
He walked toward her.
“You do not care to join the festivities?” he asked, watching Amaryllis’s busy fingers.
“No, my lord.”
Her voice was barely above a whisper.
“What is the nature of your position in this household, ma’am?” he asked, suddenly wishing she would look up.
“I am a relative, my lord.”
“Lord Merechester!” Lady Warburton’s voice sounded shrill. “I would like your opinion on a snuffbox my husband purchased the other day.”
The Marquess kept his gaze fixed on Amaryllis’s bent head.
“You have
not introduced me to this lady, Lady Warburton,” he said.
Lady Warburton gave a bark of laughter. “I would have thought an introduction was hardly necessary.”
He looked at the silent figure of the poor relation, his gaze suddenly sharp. She had stopped sewing and was nervously spreading the material out over her knee.
With a sort of wonder, he said, almost under his breath, “It can’t be . . . Amaryllis.”
She looked up. He stared down at the thin, pinched white face, at the large gray eyes which had once sparkled with life and youth and were now carefully blank.
“My Lord Merechester,” said Amaryllis, “forgive me for not rising to welcome you, but my sewing is too arranged . . .”
“Of course,” he interrupted quickly. He turned and caught Lady Warburton’s avid stare.
“Excuse us, my lady,” he said firmly. Lady Warburton flushed and walked away.
He pulled up a chair and sat down next to Amaryllis. The orchestra was playing a jaunty tune. He had sometimes sat with her thus in the old days at a ball, content to watch her beautiful face, content to think she loved him and that he was the most fortunate of men.
“How is this?” he asked harshly. “You did not find your rich husband?”
“No,” said Amaryllis, fleetingly raising her eyes to his.
“And so this is what you have come to,” he said savagely. “The poor relation. Have you no pride? Could you not do better than this?”
“No, my lord,” said Amaryllis with apparent calm. “I tried to find employ, but it did not serve. I had no alternative.”
“Except me,” he said bitterly. “And you prefer this existence to marriage to me? At times I plagued myself with thoughts that perhaps you had really loved me and had only released me from the engagement because of mistaken pride. But no woman with pride could endure this life. I am glad. You deserve it.”
Amaryllis winced.
“Look at yourself! Jaded, worn-out, old before your time. The perpetual spinster in the chimney corner. An unpaid servant.”
“Stop!” Amaryllis looked at him blindly.
“Why should I stop? This is the last time I shall speak to you during this visit, ma’am, and I intend to make the most of it. I have decided to do what you should have done . . . as you swore you would do. I am here to find myself a rich partner for marriage. One of the Warburton girls will do. I do not much care which one.”
“You have changed,” said Amaryllis in a low voice. “I do not like to see you like this.”
“My dear poor relation. It is not your place to voice your dislikes. I am no longer the poor Marquess of Merechester, I am extremely rich–”
“And extremely pompous,” flashed Amaryllis, goaded beyond belief.
She glared at him, anger lending color to her cheeks and fire to her eyes.
At that moment, the dance finished and Agatha and Cissie came bouncing up. Everything about them bounced, from their plump bosoms to their fat, glossy ringlets.
“Ammy,” cried Cissie. “Run and fetch my fan this instant, you lazy thing. Dear Lord Merechester. Mama says you will not dance. Cannot we persuade you?”
The Marquess had stood up at the sisters’ arrival. Behind him, Amaryllis hurriedly got to her feet and slipped quietly from the room.
“Only such beauty as yours could persuade me,” laughed the Marquess, although his laughter did not reach his eyes.
With Agatha on one arm and Cissie on the other, he strolled toward the saloon, where the orchestra was preparing to play the next dance.
Amaryllis left her sewing basket in her room and then wrapped herself warmly in a cloak and made her way downstairs and slipped out a back door into the grounds. She knew that Lady Warburton would come looking for her at the first opportunity, and she did not feel she could face her.
She had no intention of looking for Cissie’s fan. Cissie would have forgotten about it already.
Her heart was beating hard, and there was a suffocating lump in her throat.
Hoarfrost glittered on the grass, and a small, cold moon rode in the black night sky above.
Amaryllis sat down on a marble bench and tried to marshal her thoughts.
How much he had changed! He had grown cold and pompous and cruel. What else did he expect her to do? Where did he expect her to go? If there had been any alternative, then she would have taken it.
“But would you?” asked the small voice of her conscience.
Her first attempt at independence had been so disastrous that she had been only too glad to return to the Warburtons. But might she not have tried again?
Then she had been young and pretty. Now that she was older and had lost her looks, would not some family or seminary be happy to hire her as governess?
The Marquess’s jeering cruelty had been hurtful in the extreme, but it had ignited a spark of rebellion.
She rose and began to pace nervously up and down the lawns, the edges of her long cloak beginning to glitter with frost where it trailed over the icy grass.
There was a burst of laughter, and she realized the windows of the saloon were close at hand.
She climbed a flight of worn, mossy steps to the long terrace which ran along the back of the house.
There was a slight gap of light at one long window where the heavy curtains did not quite meet.
Drawn like a moth to the candle flame, she walked forward and looked in.
How gay everyone looked!
The Marquess danced down the set with a radiant and laughing Cissie on his arm. She said something to him, and he looked down at her with that lazy smile of his.
Amaryllis clenched and unclenched her fingers. Before, although she had resented the Warburtons’ shabby treatment, she had never envied them. But now she envied Cissie and Agatha from the bottom of her heart. Oh, to be able to wear pretty clothes and to laugh and dance as she once had done.
The dance ended. The Marquess raised Cissie’s hand to his lips, and she dimpled up at him.
We never even kissed, thought Amaryllis in a sort of sad wonder. How little we really knew of each other.
Somehow their lovemaking had been confined to warm glances and pressures of the hand. Although she had accepted the fact he was marrying her for her dowry, she had begun to hope his feelings toward her were changing to love. She remembered sitting out with him at balls, enclosed in their own private world where every remark was a caress and every glance a kiss.
Why should he now be so bitter? He had never loved her. Had he loved her, then he would never have let her go so easily.
All the regard and affection she had thought he held in his heart for her had merely been the result of her own imagination. And she was better off without him, she told herself angrily. Much better. Only see how haughty and cruel and stern he had become.
He was flirting with Cissie with practiced ease, but there was something almost contemptuous in his manner.
I don’t care a fig for him anymore, thought Amaryllis, turning away from the window.
She walked away across the lawns, away from the music, and Cissie’s high-pitched laughter.
The ache at her heart would not go away.
But perhaps it was anger that made her walk straighter than she had done in years and push a stray lock of hair back from her face with an unconsciously graceful feminine movement of her hand.
Chapter Three
The next day, a vast pall of tedium settled over the lady guests. The men had gone out shooting after an enormous breakfast, leaving the ladies to sit around gossiping, yawning, or writing letters at spindly-legged tables.
Without the gentlemen, no one felt like being witty. Cissie and Agatha repeatedly sent for Amaryllis, but she was reported absent from her room, and so they did not even have their customary diversion of tormenting Amaryllis to while away the time.
Amaryllis was in the kitchens. The housekeeper, Mrs. Abber, had begged her for her help. One of the maids had scorched a pair of new linen sheets with an
overhot iron, and Mrs. Abber shuddered to think what would happen when Lady Warburton next inspected the linen room.
Mrs. Abber had often turned to Amaryllis for advice. Amaryllis was the only member of the household who actually used the library, and she could be counted on to find remedies for nearly every household ill from the stock of knowledge she had acquired through extensive reading.
And so Amaryllis in apron and cap was busy preparing a mixture from half a pint of vinegar, two ounces of fuller’s earth, one ounce of dried fowls’ dung, half an ounce of soap, and the juice of two large onions.
“Are you sure this will work, Miss Duvane?” asked Mrs. Abber anxiously, peering into the bubbling mess on the kitchen stove.
“It smells terrible, does it not?” said Amaryllis. “But it does work. Our old housekeeper used it. And I found it highly recommended in a housekeeping book in the library. Now, I think it is ready. See, it has quite boiled down to a paste. We spread the paste on the scorched area and leave it to dry, and then have the laundry maids wash it several times. Lady Warburton is not likely to pay us a visit? Perhaps we should have used the laundry room, Mrs. Abber.”
“No, miss, her ladyship hardly ever visits the kitchens except about once a month to make sure there has been no pilfering. Very strict is her ladyship, but then I do not need to tell you that, miss.”
“It does smell horrible,” said Amaryllis, wrinkling her nose. “Get one of the maids to take the sheets to the laundry room now. If James should come in, he is sure to tell Lady Warburton.”
“That James,” said Mrs. Abber darkly. “Second footman, be blowed! More like first-class sneak.” One of the maids bundled up the paste-covered sheets and carried them off.
When she had left, Mrs. Abber turned back to Amaryllis. “I hear my lady has great hopes of a match between Cissie and this Lord Merechester,” said Mrs. Abber, looking steadfastly at a corner of the kitchen table.
“Oh, muffins!” cried Amaryllis, deliberately changing the subject. The kitchen boy was toasting muffins in front of the fire and piling them neatly on a plate ready to be carried upstairs for tea. “I do love toasted muffins.”