A Country Wooing (13 page)

“It would be out of place here. The furnishings are all old and heavy.”

“The Sheraton chairs are not bad. Covered with some nice new bright material, they would smarten you up.”

“The way of it is, if you go putting one new thing into a room, it makes everything else show its age,” Mrs. Wickfield said resignedly.

“That’s perfectly true,” Rosalie agreed. “When I got my new Carlton House table, I had to redo the walls, for it didn’t stand out against the old brown paper. I had them redone in yellow silk. It looks lovely.”

She then turned to Anne. “Does Miss Barnfield still make your gowns, Anne?”

“Her eyesight is failing. Mama and I usually make our own now.”

“Oh, my dear—such a bore for you! There is nothing so tedious as stitching. I have an ingenious French modiste. An artist—really, she is an artist. She is making me up an exquisite white gown for a do Bertie and I are going to at Carlton House next week. White crepe, with seed pearls all down the front. I look a regular dasher in it, I promise you.”

“Annie likes white crepe,” Robin said with a mischievous smile at his cousin.

“It would suit you better than the yellow you wore last night,” Rosalie said. “That blue you’re wearing is pretty, Anne. Is it new?”

“I’ve had it a few years,” Anne admitted.

“Very nice color. The cut, of course, is not quite à la mode, but the color suits you.”

Alex, sitting with Exmore and waiting for some masculine talk to get started between them, was listening to this conversation.

Soon Rosalie tired of examining the furnishings and gowns. “I don’t know how you all endure the tediousness of living in the country from head to toe of the year. Nothing ever seems to happen here.”

“Nothing happen?” Mrs. Wickfield exclaimed, astonished. “Why, we’ve had a half dozen births in as many months here in the neighborhood, to say nothing of old Albert Secours dying and leaving no will. A fine brouhaha that was! Why, exciting things are happening every day. You only have to know where to look.”

“And what to consider exciting,” Alex added, tossing a mischievous smile to Anne.

She smiled back, but wanly. All her happy joking about her impoverished condition had deserted her during Rosalie’s tirade. She looked wistfully at her visitor’s elegant lutestring gown, at her white hands, which never did anything more strenuous than lift a teacup, at her dainty slippers, which would be cast aside long before they ever required mending.

As he watched, Alex’s heart ached for her. Would he ever be able to give her all the fine things she deserved? Being deeply in love, he thought better beaux would fall into her lap, given half a chance. Perhaps he was being unfair to dangle after her.

Exmore soon began asking him questions about the Peninsular Campaign, which prevented Alex from overhearing the ladies’ discussion, but he noticed that as Rosalie rattled merrily on, Anne’s spirits sank lower, till in the end she was replying in monosyllables. After half an hour, she rose, saying, “I’ll round up the children for tea. They’ll need washing after their activities.”

Alex followed her to the front door. “Has Rosalie been trying to smarten you up?”

She gave him a startled, conscious look. “What do you mean?”

“I’m speaking sartorially—is she telling you all the new fashions in London?”

“Yes, and making me realize what a dowd I am in the bargain.”

“You don’t look dowdy to me, Duck.” He smiled. It wrenched her heart to see him being so brave, trying to cheer her, from the depths of his own problems.

“To her I do, but that’s not why I’m peevish. How will you repay Exmore, Alex?”

“I don’t know. I’ll think about that tomorrow.”

“It seems to me they don’t need the money so badly. The things Rosalie has told us about buying in the past half hour must come to more than what you owe them. She’s a part of the Penholme family, too. She should take the loss of her loan to Charlie and not pester you with it now.”

“It was Exmore’s money, not hers. He must be paid.”

They called the children, and soon the whole throng was seated around the table. It was not the happy sort of meal recently enjoyed at Penholme. Rosalie chided her sisters for their lack of manners, and when Bung began talking about the frog he had caught at the pond, she scolded him for discussing such things at table.

“People eat them,” he pointed out.

“The
French
eat them,” she corrected.

“The French are people. What’s wrong with talking about them at the table? It’s no different from chickens or cows. We eat dead animals.”

Rosalie pushed away her plate with a pained expression. “Till these ruffians have been taught some manners, Alex, you ought not to allow them into company. I don’t approve of having children at table with adults. They invariably say something disgusting and usually make such a revolting mess of their food besides, that no one with any sensitivity can bear to eat a bite.”

The less sensitive members finished their tea—even Rosalie had soon attacked her food again—but the party was not a great success. Everyone was relieved when the duchess entered her black carriage with the strawberry leaves on the door panels and was driven to Penholme, where she was soon complaining of the holes in the wall of the armaments room and the dust under her bed, in spite of dozens of servants. Alex quietly locked the door of the blue suite, to prevent her from seeing the charred curtains there.

The next diversion in the lives of the Penholmes and the Wickfields would be less unappealing to her grace. The children who had so marred the last outing would not be attending the spring assembly in Eastleigh, nor the dinner at Penholme before it, to which the Wickfields were invited.

Anne, weary of her rose and old yellow gowns, reached farther back into her closet to see what she could do with a blue moire gown of yore. She would look a quiz beside the elegant duchess and the merchants’ daughters, but at least she would be in the company of the most elevated persons at the assembly, and she took what consolation she could from that. Rosalie did not spurn country do’s. Having been raised at Penholme, she enjoyed to go again among her old friends and amaze them with her duke and her London style.

As the Duchess of Exmore, with Bertie a notch above Penholme in precedence, she would get to open the dancing. She planned to flirt discreetly with her old beaux and break a dozen hearts before the night was over. She was in good spirits and, of more importance to her, in good looks.

Decked out in diamonds and silk, Rosalie did the family credit; Alex smiled to see her open the assembly. “She puts them all in the shade, doesn’t she?” he asked Anne while they stood waiting to join in the dance.

“Yes,” Anne said briefly, but added not a word of praise on the loveliest creature ever to have come out of the county.

The duchess was the undisputed queen of the party, but the king was not so easily ascertained. There was Bertie, the only duke present, to be considered, and there was Penholme, a returned officer and the local lord, but both of these gentlemen were run very hard by Lord Robin. He looked licked to a splinter in Charlie’s black evening outfit by Weston. Rosalie was undecided whether to honor him or Penholme for the second dance, but in the end precedence won out, and she stood up with Alex.

Her mind was more than half full of the impression she was making, but she saved a corner of it to look around for eligible ladies for her brothers. Before long, she had singled out a pair who were second only to her in fashion. Alex was unable to enlighten her as to their identity, but during the third dance, Robin told her they were the Anglin girls, Maggie and Marilla.

“Anglin? What kind of a name is that? I never heard of any Anglins hereabouts.”

“They’re new. Their papa is lately retired from London.”

“I don’t recognize the name from London society either. Who are they? They look unexceptionable.”

“They’re cits, Rosie,” Robin said bluntly. “You wouldn’t have heard of them, but I daresay you’ve heard of the Albion string of stores. They have a couple of them in London and one in Bath and Brighton—all over the place. Anglin is the owner.”

It was a hard circumstance to a Penholme-Exmore, very much aware of her family bloodlines, that such rich girls should be so low-born. In appearance, however, they might pass for fine ladies, and as ladies Penholme and Robin they might also get by without their ancestors passing under too close a scrutiny. She was not so impetuous as to hand her brothers over without hearing what sort of accent came out of the girls’ mouths and seeing whether they handled their cutlery at dinner with propriety.

It was necessary that she see them at close range to determine whether they could conceal their origins, and for this, she must have them presented to her. Robin was not loath to perform the introduction; indeed, he performed with suspicious alacrity in the matter.

The girls were examined with the thoroughness of a horse breeder about to purchase a brood mare. It was not chest and eye and ankle that were studied but the presence (or absence) of pronounced aitches, the tilt of the head, whether lofty or hung low in high company. They gained a point immediately by holding their heads at the proper angle and blushing prettily as they expressed their delight in the presentation.

Their features were seen to be pleasing, not outstanding enough to rival Rosalie’s own, but with no raw-boned, common look about them. Rather fine-featured, actually. Both were a little inclined to tallness, but they carried themselves well and were a few inches short of being termed “ladders.”

The elder was the prettier, with brown eyes and hair and a good set of teeth. Miss Maggie was not unlike her, but the face was shorter, with a smattering of freckles that bespoke an unladylike familiarity with the sun. They were well-spoken, a matter of paramount importance; and of nearly equal merit, they were not in the least forthcoming. They realized very well the degree of condescension bestowed on them, and were suitably reverent.

Rosalie was a trifle vexed when Robin asked the younger to stand up with him, till it darted into her head that this was exactly as things ought to be. Miss Anglin, the elder and slightly more desirable, must be left for Alex. Ignoring the fact that Alex had already found himself an heiress, she delivered a blushing Miss Anglin to his side to stand up with.

There was no longer any vestige of a doubt in her mind that Alex, the gudgeon, had settled on Anne Wickfield. Annie, the sly thing, was feigning a
tendre
after having chased Charlie for years as hard as her legs would carry her. She did not by any means despise Anne for this cleverness. She would have done exactly the same thing herself in Anne’s place, if Alex’s pockets were not so badly to let. It was pointless to think she could get Alex to London to make a truly brilliant match; he had never been a city buck. No, he would choose his bride from among the second-rate girls at this assembly, and of those present, Miss Anglin bore the crown.

Alex was not a high stickler. It was his intention to dance with anyone presented to him, and in particular he had intended to seek out the Anglin girls, as Robin referred to Maggie more often than mere chance would indicate. He was clearly interested in the girl, and, therefore, his elder brother intended to size her up. He was slightly less interested in this elder sister he was with, but as a future connection, she, too, was to be examined. He could find no glaring fault in her. She was a little shy, but he wasn’t the sort of gentleman who enjoyed idle flirtation, so he approved of her quiet manners.

At the dance’s end, he went along to where Robin and Miss Maggie stood. After he was presented to Maggie, he and Robin exchanged partners for the next set.

Rosalie darted over to join Anne, who had been standing up with Exmore. “Those are the Anglin girls,” she told her spouse. “Their papa is Albion.”

Exmore frowned. “I never heard of Lord Albion,” he said.

“Not Lord Albion, love, he is a cit,” she said, and laughed merrily. “Rich as Croesus, and he has no sons, just these two girls to inherit it all. He’s retired, Robin tells me, which dilutes the aroma of trade. I think we have got Alex’s problem solved. These two will make very fine brides, don’t you think?”

“Penholme won’t marry a merchant’s daughter,” Exmore objected at once.

“Pooh! At this point Alex would marry an actress if the dibs were in tune. He hasn’t much choice, poor soul. I have met the girls and given them my approval. Don’t you find them quite genteel, Anne?”

“They are well enough,” Anne said coolly. Her glance strayed across the room to where Robin and Alex were conversing with the sisters. She was painfully aware that Miss Anglin was younger and much better outfitted than she was herself. Any stranger entering the room would take Miss Anglin for the fine lady.

Rosalie turned aside for a private word with Anne. “Alex
must
marry money, Anne,” she said bluntly. “Don’t let him waste your time playing up to you, for nothing can come of it. You must get busy and find yourself another parti. Now, who is that gentleman over there with his quizzing glass raised?” she asked. “I declare, it’s Georgie Hamilton. I haven’t seen him in a dog’s age. Not a bad catch for you,” she advised Anne. She raised her hand and waved him to her.

This scion of a good county family, one of Rosalie’s old court, came forward promptly, hoping for the distinction of a dance with the duchess, who did no more than say good evening before she put her white fingers on her duke’s arm and led him off for a glass of wine.

Mr. Hamilton showed no aversion to standing up with Miss Wickfield, nor she with him. She had already had a dance with Alex and knew perfectly well she would not have another till after the intermission, if he chose to honor her with two dances. Naturally, he must dance with other ladies, but when he went from one Anglin sister to the other, then at the end of that dance went to meet their parents, she began to fear Rosalie’s advice was being heeded.

When Alex sat the next dance out with the parents, she was definitely miffed, and when the Exmores darted up to join them, she was furious. It looked as if Rosalie was having her way—as usual. Of course, it was only the money she was after, and in the usual frank way of the Penholmes, she didn’t bother to conceal it.