Elisabeth Kidd (10 page)

“However,” Sydney remarked dryly, “once they come to know me better, they will discover what a disagreeable nature I have, and that will be the campaign lost!’’

“Oh, never say so, my dear!” Prudence exclaimed, horrified—and taking a restorative gulp of ratafia. “We will put it about that you have a most original wit, and every gentleman will want to test his against it—and of course you will let them get the better of you, and they will all go about saying what a witty girl you are!”

At that, Sydney laughed merrily, but Prudence, who was entirely in earnest, failed to see the wit in it.

Sydney had little more success in coming to an understanding with Susan, but their relationship, if unusual, was at least a warm one.

Susan was a small, delicate girl with fair hair and a face that could be pretty when it was animated, but because Susan was almost painfully shy, she was far more likely to blush hotly and lower her eyes than to meet a stranger’s gaze and demonstrate her possibilities. She was terrified of Lyle, even when he was not addressing her, or even looking at her, and her astonishment at Sydney and Lyle’s dinnertime conversation would have rendered her speechless if she were not already so. Even Prudence’s eyes widened when Sydney dared to answer Lyle’s verbal attacks with a sharp volley of her own, but Susan’s reaction was to adopt an adoring puppy-like attitude to Sydney, whom she regarded as a model of courage and self-possession.

Sydney could not help responding to this, as much as she disparaged it, so that when Susan blushed in hot confusion at Lyle’s nonchalantly asking her if she would care for a game of cards after dinner, Sydney rushed to her rescue. Cedric had at last, she told Susan, succeeded in enlightening Sydney in the intricacies of whist, a statement that caused Susan to feel much relief, and both Lyle and Prudence to gaze admiringly—although for different reasons—at Miss Archer.

Later, after Sydney had demonstrated her competence at the game to Lyle, Cedric, and Prudence, she excused herself to ask Susan if she would care to take a turn around the room—this being the long parlour at the top of the house rather than the smaller library.

Susan and Mrs. Collins had been sitting in a corner with their stitchery, but at this suggestion, Mrs. Collins kindly urged her companion to feel no compunction at leaving her alone, and Susan rose, professing a desire to stretch her limbs. The card game was reduced to a two-handed one, Lyle also excusing himself to stand in back of Cedric’s chair and offer him cryptic advice which, as he had calculated, served more to his aunt’s advantage than Cedric’s.

The two young ladies’ conversation was quite animated—at least on Sydney’s part—as they strolled slowly away from the card players to the far end of the long, paneled room, but more circumspect when they turned at the end to walk back. Sydney pulled Susan’s arm companionably through her own.

“Is this not a fine room?” Sydney ventured, gazing at a series of Hogarth prints along the north wall. Susan, however, had no opinions on either architecture or art, and replied with a polite but unimaginative, “Yes, indeed!’’

Sydney tried another tack. “You have a brother, do you not, Susan? I wish he could have come with you to Long Hill.’’

Susan said she believed Dolph had been engaged elsewhere this week, but she did not know precisely. “He does not confide in me a great deal, you see.”

Sydney thought this rather odd, having herself been the recipient of her four cousins’ confidences almost from the time she was out of leading strings.

“I do hope
we
shall be friends, Susan,” she said, patting the younger girl’s hand in much the same way Susan’s mother was accustomed to do to Sydney, “for I am acquainted with no one in London, and must depend on you to introduce me to people.’’

“Oh, Miss Archer!” Susan exclaimed, as they made the turn again at the end of the room. “I shall be happy to stand you a friend—but surely my lord Lyle—and Mr. Maitland, of course—will make you acquainted with more important people than I can boast of knowing!’’

“You must call me Sydney, you know, Susan—I assure you, you will soon become accustomed to the oddity of it! My lord guardian will not be honouring London with a visit this season, I fear, and as for Cedric—he is a bachelor, after all, and cannot know as many of the young ladies and
settled
people as you and your mama must do.”

“But surely his lordship will wish to be in attendance,” Susan protested, not having taken in any more of Sydney’s speech than that.

“It appears he does not,” Sydney replied enigmatically (they were just then approaching the card table again), “but I think we will do better on our own in any case” (this when they had made the turn). “Do you not think so?”

“Oh, yes!” Susan breathed fervently. Sydney looked sharply at her.

“Susan, dear, you’re not afraid of Lyle, are you?”

“Oh, no! That is, not
afraid
precisely
,
but he does give the impression of not quite approving of a mere female—except for
you,
of course.”

“What?”

Sydney looked quickly over her shoulder to see if anyone had heard this rather loud exclamation, startled out of her by Susan’s bizarre—and surely unjustified—remark. Fortunately, the card players appeared to be absorbed in their game, and Lyle had picked up a book and was leafing through it.

“Susan, you must be mistaken! Really, you have been here such a short time, and have had only this evening to observe Lyle in action—that is, I am certain he can have said nothing to you to indicate he approves of me. Far from it!”

Susan looked down at Lyle’s very fine Axminster carpet and said, “Perhaps you are right, Miss Archer—Sydney. It is true that I cannot recall any particular words of his lordship’s, but it is also true that although I have known him all my life, I am a—a little frightened of him, and—well, the thing is, he is usually so disapproving that I know very well when he
likes
something!’’

Susan raced breathlessly and in a kind of stage whisper to the end of this speech, and looked up at Sydney’s face to see if the other girl understood her, but Sydney was staring fixedly ahead at Lyle’s profile and thinking hard. She realized suddenly that she—Sydney Archer, of all people—was more frightened of the Marquess of Lyle than even his timid cousin was.

How could that be? she wondered. She had got along very well with every other gentleman she had ever met—such few as had passed through the vicarage, at least—although she had never behaved quite so recklessly as she did here at Long Hill. Her Uncle Augustus had always teased her that her tongue ran on wheels, but he would be astounded to hear some of the things she had been saying lately. Why did she do it? It could not even be simply because she was frightened of Lyle—although Sydney recognized now that this was a part of it. There must be some other reason.

As if he felt her eyes on him, Lyle turned his head unexpectedly and looked at Sydney. Equally unexpectedly, he smiled. A sudden awareness that she and Lyle were the only two people present who understood each other’s thinking came to her—and with it the irrelevant thought that this was not to be wondered at, their being both, so to speak, alone in the world.

Sydney felt her own cheeks turning scarlet. Furious with herself, she turned again—forgetting Susan’s arm in her own and nearly causing that young lady to trip on the edge of the carpet.

The party for London set out a week later, Sydney having declared herself more than ready to go, and having convinced Prudence of her fitness to do so. Cedric’s interest in life outside Long Hill revived and he went off cheerfully to order his curricle to be polished. Lyle’s attention, on the other hand, flagged discourteously; he shrugged his shoulders, instructed his servants to lend every assistance to the travelers, and retreated into his library.

He did, however, emerge long enough to bid farewell to his guests as they waited in the long, gracefully curved drive of Long Hill for the carriage to be brought around. Cedric had invited Sydney to ride beside him on his curricle, but she was told firmly by Prudence—who was prompted by Murray who was ordered by Lyle—that she would do no such thing. Sydney, Prudence, and Susan would travel in Lyle’s best carriage, as befitted gentlewomen. Cedric could drive himself if he so desired, with Hitchin up behind him. Jenkins and Daisy would follow with the baggage coach.

The April sun lifted everyone’s spirits, and Sydney was even moved to approach the Marquess and shake his hand.

“Good-bye, my lord.”

Her smile was as sunny as the weather. Lyle returned it.

“Good-bye, Miss Archer. Do not turn London upside down too quickly, please.”

“I could, you know,” Sydney reminded him with an impertinent grin.  She then climbed up into the carriage with no assistance from Chambers, to whom—and to Murray, Mrs. Collins, and the other servants, Lyle noted—she bade an even warmer farewell than she had to her guardian.

Lyle watched the little expedition set off down the drive, and his smile faded to a faint scowl. Blast the little minx! He had expected to feel a blessed sense of relief at seeing the last of her, but here he was, still wondering what lay behind that impish grin. The thought struck him that she had humbugged him after all—that she had no intention of behaving herself once she was out of his sight, but had deliberately lulled him into believing he had scotched her grand, if ill-defined schemes once and for all. He could not now change his oft-expressed determination not to go to London himself—Sydney doubtless counted on that—but he was mightily tempted. It would certainly be entertaining to see precisely what she got up to there! Lyle made a rude noise to himself and turned back into his suddenly very empty house.

Sydney, unaware of Lyle’s doubts, sat back happily in the carriage and concentrated her mind on the delicious opportunities ahead of her—pushing to the back of it the nagging notion that she had left something unfinished behind—and gazed out the window at the ever-changing view of the springtime-green countryside. Prudence, for once acting up to her name, refrained from mentioning to Sydney until they were approaching the village of Chiswick, some dozen miles from London, that they would be making a brief stop there to pay their respects to Lady Romney, whose home was charmingly situated with a sweeping view of the nearby Thames. Sydney turned her head to scowl at her chaperone.

“Dear Vanessa will give us a lovely tea,” Prudence said brightly, not meeting Sydney’s fulminating look. “I’m sure it will refresh us wonderfully for the remainder of our journey.’’

“I am not in the least in need of refreshment,” Sydney told her.

“Oh, do let us stop!” begged Susan, who had been looking out the other window. “We have only had to sit here comfortably, while poor Mr. Maitland has been driving himself all this way!’’

This silenced Sydney effectively, although when shortly they had been handed down from the carriage by the same Mr. Maitland, he did not look especially fatigued. Indeed, there was a distinct glow on his face, which made Sydney realize with a pang of guilt that he had been deprived of all his usual amusements for the last several weeks, all for her benefit, and was surely looking forward to resuming them.

It was for this reason that she endured quietly Lady Romney’s keen scrutiny of her young guest’s attire, bearing, and general deportment while they took their tea together. In these Vanessa was, unsuspected by Sydney, disturbingly impressed, which prompted her to be at her most ingratiating. Cedric regarded this as ominous, but since Prudence basked in it and Sydney was temporarily docile, he made no remark that might agitate these placid waters.

The tea party broke up on a cordial, even warm, note and the travelers continued on their way refreshed. As they neared the metropolis and houses became more common than trees, Sydney forgot Lady Romney in her fascination with the changing scene. They bowled through Kensington village and past the Palace there; then Knightsbridge was by, and presently they were obliged to slow their pace as they approached Hyde Park Corner, where traffic was suddenly much thicker. Sydney had barely a glimpse of what she supposed must be the Duke of Wellington’s residence at Number One Piccadilly before the carriage turned north, and then turned again into a quiet street that gave shortly onto Grosvenor Square.

‘‘Well, here we are at last!’’ Prudence exclaimed with satisfaction as she was being handed down from the carriage. They had been expected, and what looked to Sydney to be an army of footmen descended immediately to assist them. While Mrs. Whitlatch bustled about, Sydney and Susan had opportunity for a quick look around them—at the green, iron-fenced square, of which the Marquess’s brick-fronted town house occupied a large portion of the south side, and in which white-capped nursemaids kept an eye on their charges who pressed against the railing to admire a dashing high-perched phaetons that passed in the roadway—before they were all shown ceremoniously inside.

The next few days flew by as Sydney attempted to adjust to her new situation. As a country-bred girl, she was at a disadvantage even to Susan, who had for years called London her home. It overwhelmed Sydney, who was unused to so many people and so little open space—and so much noise!

But she also discovered very quickly that she liked it. There was so much to see! Even on the short drive from Knightsbridge to Grosvenor Square, Sydney had observed dozens of shops, rows of tall elegant houses with modern gas lamps in front of them, and innumerable persons, from flower sellers and dairymaids to wagoners and exquisite gentlemen in high starched collars and with chains on their waistcoats, strolling along the broad flagged pavement.

And there was so much to do! On the very day of their arrival, Prudence—recalling a word whispered in her ear by Lady Romney—took Sydney and Susan off to visit the dressmaker in Henrietta Street, where much was made of Miss Archer’s striking colouring, and even more of her connection with the nobility. Cedric came to dinner that evening, and invited all the ladies to drive in the Park with him the next day. This did not sound an overly interesting activity to Sydney, who hinted broadly that she would prefer to spend a few hours in Hatchard’s famous literary emporium, replenishing her library, and perhaps discover where the Royal Academy and Mr. Samuel Johnson’s house and the Theatre Royal were located. Even Susan remarked offhandedly that she had not been to Astley’s Amphitheatre for ages, and Prudence wondered if Newton’s had got in those silk stockings they had promised to order for her. But Cedric was adamant.