Charlotte pulled Beaumont’s attention away from Ann by saying, “Your sister is quite charming. What are her interests?”
“She is quite musical and enjoys reading, embroidery, and drawing. But these are but a few of her many talents.”
“You know what I think? We should go for a drive to Cranborne Chase. It is delightful this time of year, and since you are new to the area, you and your sister should find the outing most delightful. And if the weather holds, might I suggest a picnic?”
“Very possibly. I shall speak to Priscilla about your plan.”
Ann spoke up again, pulling Beaumont’s attention back to her. “And are you accompanied by any other of your family members?”
“Our mother came with us, but only for a short time. She prefers the hustle and bustle of the city, and I am sure will soon tire of our quiet and solitary life in Dorset.”
“Did she accompany you this evening?”
“No, she was tired from our journey down and is resting.”
“Then you must bring her quite soon to tea. Any afternoon would do. We are almost always at home.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the next course—delicate filets of pheasant with a shallot, burgundy sauce, potatoes au gratin, and a wild salad with an orange and champagne vinaigrette.
In the meantime, Betsy was sitting next to her mother.
“And just who have you danced with this evening, my dear? I have not been able to keep an eye out for you as I should. There have been so many interruptions.”
“A few gentlemen. But not a single one of notable interest,” Betsy admitted.
“Oh, child, I do despair for you. Why do you insist on making yourself so unattractive? You are quite a pretty thing really, but you make no effort whatsoever.”
“Oh, Mother, they mostly bore me so. They only talk about themselves and their feeble accomplishments. Why ever would I want to consider marrying such toads?”
The Duchess was distracted by the attention of The Baron Asquith who was sitting to her left.
“Your Grace, this is my first visit to Grayson Manor, and I have to say it is quite a satisfactory residence.”
This put down did not please the Duchess, and she replied. “And I suppose you live in a palace?”
“The Grange is quite a substantial home. We find it suits us quite well,” he replied.
This put Judith in a foul mood, and she turned to her dinner and ignored him the rest of the evening.
Betsy disappointed her mother, but Ann and Charlotte were deeply engaged in conversation with the new young man, and that pleased her greatly. The Countess had fallen asleep during the first dance session and could not be roused for supper. But Judith would make a point of questioning her more fully when the guests returned for the second round of dancing.
Yes, the ball was moderately entertaining, but all George could think about was finishing his latest painting. He was itching to toss off his dress suit, put on his work clothes and smock, and head back to his studio, even if it meant working by lamplight late into the night. But, alas, it was not to be this evening. The second round of dancing had barely begun, and the guests were so enthusiastic, he knew the ball would go on long after midnight.
Then it struck him—he had not seen Lucy. She was usually at his mother’s side but had been absent all evening. And then he realized with a discreet smile that his mother probably did not want Lucy at the ball, because she might very well distract from his plainer sisters. Naughty mother, he thought. He was about to go over and scold her, but he was interrupted by the appearance of Miss Priscilla.
“I believe we are to have the next dance,” she said taking his arm.
“A quadrille,” he said looking at her dance card. “Most enjoyable.”
As they danced, it was clear to George that Miss Priscilla was interested in him. She brought up any number of topics that might intrigue him, and he had to admit she was a charming and knowledgeable young lady. And yes, she was very pretty—but pretty in a girlish way. As always, he ended up comparing her to Lucy—the loveliest and most potentially beautiful woman he would ever know. But over the course of their conversation, Miss Priscilla let it be known that she came with a living of five thousand a year—and she was the daughter of a Lord. There could be no doubt his mother would swoon over the possibility of such a match for him.
When their dance was finished, George excused himself. He had purposely chosen not to engage in many dances, as he felt it was necessary to be a good host and mingle with guests at the dance who were not dancing. As usual, his father, the most obvious host, hung out in his study with a gang of gentlemen who always spent any social occasion together drinking heavily and smoking cigars.
As George visited with the non-dancing guests, he found he was particularly welcomed by mothers of eligible young daughters. They pressed their various suits upon him and suggested he might come by for a visit to their homes any afternoon. He knew the routine, but was oblivious to it, having witnessed it numerous times in his own family. But he was tiring rapidly of this not so subtle assault.
Suddenly a shriek rang out, and he turned to see his mother across the room with her hands in the air looking down at her lap. He quickly made his way to her.
“Mother, what troubles you?”
Judith was looking down at Isabell who was shaking and in some sort of a spasm. It was clear she was upset, but George did not know what to do. Judith turned to Flossy. “Help me,” she cried out, disregarding all forms of decorum.
Flossy came over and looked down at the dog but waved her hands. “Oh, Your Grace, I know not what to do. Is she sick?”
“Of course, she is. Do something.”
Flossy now waved her hands even more violently, and looked at George, “Oh, sir, I know not what is to be done.”
George picked the dog up, but she had lost bladder control and was relieving herself all over the front of George’s breeches. “Tarnation! Flossy go fetch Miss Lucy. She is much more knowledgeable about these things than I am.”
Flossy dashed off, obviously relieved to pass the responsibility on to someone else.
Even with the Duchess’s distress, the dancing had not stopped. The Country Dance group was now playing, and the dancers were in a boisterous, giddy round of knees up dancing. Most of the guests appeared to be unaware of the incident with the dog.
George, in the meantime, had procured a shawl and had wrapped Isabell in that. Lucy shortly came up next to him.
“Is it Isabell?” she asked.
“Yes, she seems to be seizing.”
“Let me take her from you. Poor dear. It is best if I deal with this downstairs.”
“Yes, please.”
He handed the wrapped dog over to Lucy, even as his mother was standing next to him pulling at his arm and saying, “Careful. Oh dear… careful. Shall I go with you?”
Lucy replied, “No, Your Grace, I think it best if I remove her from this hot room. It may be nothing. And if she has some water and a bite to eat she might improve quite nicely.”
“Yes, yes. Do that. Oh, be careful. Do not hurt her,” Judith said pushing Lucy forward. She turned to George, “Go with her. Let me know how she is.”
George was surprised to find he was happy to be leaving the ball, not only because of his soiled breeches, but especially since he was to accompany Lucy.
They headed down the stairs to the servant’s quarters and lay the dog down on a work table in the laundry room still wrapped in the shawl.
Lucy examined the dog and turned to George with a stricken-looking face. “Oh, George, she did not make it. I believe she is dead.”
“Oh, Mother will be upset.”
He went to examine the dog for himself, and it was clear that she was indeed dead.”
“I best wait to tell Mother about this after the ball is over. Otherwise, she may become overly emotional and cause a scene.”
“Or you could bring her down here and let her be with her dear fr
iend to grieve alone.”
“Lucy, you are so wise and caring. That is a much better idea.”
“Do you want me to fetch her?” Lucy asked.
“No, I think it best if I do that.”
“Very well. I shall stay here in case your mother needs me.”
George left the room and returned to the ball, which was still robustly in full swing. As he was crossing the ballroom toward his mother, he was stopped by Beaumont who took hold of his arm.
“George, I say… who was that absolutely fine vision I saw you leaving with just now? Is that another one of your sisters?”
It took George a moment to realize Beaumont was talking about Lucy. “No. But you must excuse me; I must relay some important information to my mother.”
George headed toward his mother, but Beaumont called after, “Then who is she? I say…”
Chapter 17
Her Grace was in deep mourning. Dressed in black with a thick veil covering her face she stood mournfully at the graveside, presided over by the local vicar—who was induced to officiate at the funeral by a sizable donation to the widow and orphan’s fund. The vicar, however, emphasized the church did not recognize the soul of a dog entering the kingdom of heaven.
On her left and right were Lucy and Flossy. Matthew absolutely refused to attend such nonsense. George stood next to Lucy but did not wear black. Of the daughters, only Betsy agreed to attend—but reluctantly.
The Vicar rattled off his spiel as quickly as possible and then fled, even though he had been offered a glass of sherry and a buffet after the service.
The Duchess lingered at the gravesite, but was finally persuaded to leave by George, who put his arm around his mother’s shoulder and led her resolutely back to the house.
George whispered to his mother as they neared to house, “Perhaps a new puppy? Might that be a solution for your sorrow?”
“Oh, George, how could you even think of such a terrible thing—and Isabell only freshly laid in the ground?”
They walked silently on, and then George added. “I happen to know of a new brood of puppies at the Waltrams. Might be just the thing.”
“How big is the litter? Mother asked.
“Seven. Four males and three females.”
“How old?”
“Four weeks, I believe.”
“Then take me to see them when they are six.”
Despite the disaster for the Duchess at the ball, the two older sisters were in heaven. Ann actually smiled occasionally, and her perpetually pinched face seemed to relax somewhat. To please herself, she often replayed her conversation with Beaumont at dinner over and over again in her mind.
Charlotte began a journal which she constantly updated with news or even thoughts about Beaumont.
But he was not the only catch of the evening. Several other young men had indicated they might call for tea in the next week to two—having been discreetly informed that each of the daughters came with a sizable living. Things were definitely looking up.
The Duchess, in anticipation of a new puppy, shed her widow’s weeds and decided several new day dresses were required for her eldest two. One could anticipate guests for tea almost any day, and fresh attire was called for. Madame Hortense was summoned, once again, and fabrics, ribbons, buttons, and trim were examined and chosen with the scrutiny of planning a military campaign—which they were.
Again, Betsy drifted through the process in a daze, unconcerned about her haberdashery.
But it had also become clear that both Charlotte and Ann were equally interested in Mr. Goodwin. They had never competed before for the same man, and there were times when sisterly affection was wearing thin.
Charlotte was prancing around Ann’s dressing room in her new green dress, twirling in circles to see how the fabric flared when she moved.
Madame Hortense cooed, “So lovely. The perfect shade of green to go with your eyes, Miss Charlotte.”
“You think so? Beaumont commented on the color of my eyes as we were dancing. He said they were the color of Burmese jade.”
Ann scowled. “All the best jade comes from China. Everyone knows that.” Madame Hortense was fastening up the yellow dress she had made for Ann.
Charlotte looked at Ann in her new dress. “Yellow. Really? Why would you ever choose that? It makes you look like a summer squash.”
“And you look like a scummy pond,” Ann retorted.
“Now, girls,” Mother scolded. “Behave yourselves. You should be pleased to have any suitable young gentlemen calling on you at your ages. Be ladies and stop this quibbling nonsense. You are both too old to be behaving like catty, jealous children.”
“Has anyone announced they are coming for tea this afternoon?” Ann asked, pulling up the dress over her shoulders.
“Not that I know of, but we extended open invitations, so we must be ready to receive guests each and every day. And always on our best behavior. Yes, my darlings?”
“Yes, Mother,” they said in unison.
For two afternoons the three daughters were elegantly dressed, anticipating one or more young gentlemen, but the only one to call was Mrs. Stevenson, head of the Stevenson All-Girl Academy, soliciting funds for the Christmas pageant.
However, on the third afternoon, there were several callers. First to arrive was Mr. Hawthorn and his mother. He was the son of the Shaftesbury Mayor. He was but three and twenty, with a rotund face and wispy, thinning blond hair. His mother sat herself down with a cup of tea and her knitting and said barely a word the entire afternoon.
But to everyone’s delight both Mr. and Miss Goodwin arrived, having gone about the countryside for a gallop and deciding to grace the Graysons with their presence for tea—as invited.
Both Charlotte and Ann stood when the guests entered the drawing room, rushing over and taking the brother and sister’s hands and ushering them to the most comfortable chairs by the tea table.
Ann and Charlotte immediately engaged them in a conversation, tripping over each other as they tried to dominate the subject matter.
Poor Mr. Hawthorn, sat next to his mother with his cup of tea but no one paying him any attention until her Grace asked him, “Do you often get into the countryside? Mid-autumn is such a lovely time of year and I find it to be exceptionally invigorating. Is that not so?”
“I-i-i-t is,” he said with a stutter. O-o-often t-t-times I like to go fishing as w-w-ell. M-m-mother likes to go for a carriage r-r-ride when the leaves turn. Is t-t-that not so, Mama?”
“Aye, it is a pleasure,” she responded.
Miss Priscilla interrupted the sisters’ discussion about cider making by asking, “Does your brother, George, join you for tea? I had hoped we might continue our discussions from the night of the ball.”
“Rarely,” Charlotte replied, “He is usually holed up in his studio painting. And we are lucky if we even see him at supper. He tends to be rather solitary.”
“Oh, if he is in his studio, might I go visit him? I have seen his paintings in London, and he promised I might see what he is working on these days.”
Charlotte and Ann looked at each other. They had no idea what the proper protocol might be for escorting Miss Priscilla to see their brother. In any case, neither offered to take her.
Priscilla turned to her brother. “Beaumont, my dearest, would you like to go with me to see Mr. George’s paintings?”
“Not my cup of tea generally, but if it pleases you, I should be happy to accompany you.”
He stood up and offered his hand to his sister. “Ladies, if you will excuse us, and tell us how we might find this studio?”
Ann and Charlotte were startled by this turn and did not immediately respond.
The Duchess, catching on to the situation and not wanting to disturb the conversation between Beaumont and her daughters, said, “Miss Priscilla, let me call someone to take you to the studio. There is no need for you, Mr. Goodwin, to disturb yourself since you are so pleasantly engaged in a conversation.”
The Duchess rang the little bell that was on the table beside her and Lucy shortly appeared.
“Your Grace?” she said standing at the door. “How may I help you?”
Beaumont caught his breath when he saw Lucy and smiled.
“Might you escort Miss Priscilla to George’s studio?” She wishes to view his paintings. And while you are at it, tell him we have guests, and he should come in for tea.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Lucy said and turned to look at Priscilla. “Miss, if you will follow me…”
The Legend of the Betrayed Duchess_A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 13