Elisabeth Kidd (9 page)

Sydney looked thoroughly perplexed, but Cedric did not meet her eyes or smile at her, being intent on his task. “Very well, Mrs. Collins, hum away—very slowly at first, if you please. Your right foot one step back, Miss Archer.”

Cedric continued to issue instructions in a calm, firm voice, as if, were he to stop, he might lose control again. Sydney, concentrating on his voice, moved slowly but steadily around the room in his arms. She did not make any false steps or tread on Cedric’s toes—at least at first—but when Cedric, growing overconfident, drew her into a turn, she suddenly caught sight of Lyle standing in the doorway, and immediately tripped.

‘‘Blast! Watch my shoulder, I said.’’

Lyle moved forward. “Don’t be foolish, Cedric. The secret is not in your shoulder. Nor, I fear, in Mrs. Collins’s accompaniment. Sit down and play a proper tune, and
I
will instruct Miss Archer.’’

If Sydney was at a loss before, she was in a positive quake when Lyle gently moved Cedric aside and, looking down at her from his greater height, placed his hand on her waist—replacing the friendly impression of Cedric’s cousinly touch with something disturbingly unfamiliar. Remarkably, however, when Cedric seated himself at the piano and began to play—quite well, although no one noticed that—one of the latest waltz airs, Sydney’s confusion suddenly fell from her.

Lyle’s touch became light and impersonal, and guided her effortlessly in time with the music. As one, they spun around the room. Sydney forgot all about looking at his shoulder, for it was no trouble to follow his lead. She closed her eyes and imagined they were alone together in a star-filled night, whirling among the planets eternally. But then the universe slowed, and stopped. Sydney opened her eyes.

Standing in the doorway behind a fascinated Murray was a short, plump lady in a sable-trimmed redingote and a velvet bonnet. Behind her stood—or rather hovered—a wistful-looking girl with a fur muff and wide, staring eyes.

“Mrs. Whitlatch, my lord!” Murray announced belatedly. “And Miss Susan Whitlatch!’’

Lyle let Sydney go abruptly and, frowning slightly, moved forward to take his aunt’s gloved hand and raise it carelessly to his lips.

“Good afternoon, Aunt. I must be flattered that you have responded with such alacrity to my summons—even as I wonder at these untimely arrivals to which my staff has lately been subjected. Is there no longer anyone at the Friar’s Head to send a message to Long Hill? They cannot have forgotten the way, after all these years.’’

Prudence Whitlatch, visibly flustered by her nephew’s cold eye and soft but acrid tongue, stammered something about being certain dear Lyle would welcome her even if she descended upon him in the middle of the night—that was to say—

“I expect Lady Romney has spoken to you about my ward,” Lyle said, cutting through the roundaboutations.

“Well, yes, she did,” Mrs. Whitlatch admitted, peering around his shoulder to get a clearer look at the young lady in question. Lyle performed the introductions. Sydney made a very pretty curtsey and smiled at Susan in a way that sent that impressionable damsel into a state of confused adoration. Lyle noted irrelevantly that next to Susan, Sydney appeared very worldly-wise indeed.

Prudence surrendered her wraps to a patiently waiting Murray, recovered what aplomb she possessed, and pronounced Miss Archer to be
très charmante,
to which Sydney replied politely,
“Je suis enchantée de faire votre connaissance, madame.”

This set Prudence back again, but she raised her dimpled chin resolutely, embraced the startling Miss Archer, and exclaimed to Lyle, “My, my! I can see you have instructed dear Sydney very well, Lyle. I do hope you have left something for me to do!’’

“I’m afraid Cedric must take the credit for the progress thus far—and the Comte de Grand-He for the French, of course—but I daresay there will still be plenty for you to attend to, Aunt.”

Sydney scowled at this, but Lyle paid her no heed. “I am certain you and Susan will wish to recover from your travels before dinner, ma’am. Miss Archer, perhaps you will be kind enough to see Mrs. Whitlatch and Miss Whitlatch to their rooms? They will take the ones to the east of your own, so that you ladies may have ample opportunity for a comfortable prose.”

Sydney’s idea of interesting conversation and Prue Whitlatch’s were two entirely different things, as Lyle well knew. There was no civil way for Sydney to raise this point just then, however, and she was as determined as Prudence was to be civil to Lyle.  She renewed her determination to follow, with as good a grace as she could muster, the most direct route to London and out of Lyle’s reach, which at that moment coincided with the path to Mrs. Whitlatch’s bedroom.

It struck her, as she sat watching Prudence dither about there—instructing Susan where to put her gloves, and then discovering she had already laid her handkerchiefs in that particular drawer, and all the while chattering brightly at Sydney—that Prudence was likewise making the best of a bad situation.

A once pretty woman who had simply faded into middle age, Prue Whitlatch talked a great deal and seemed to be interested in everything that went on in her limited sphere, but it did not seem to Sydney that she cared very much about any of it. No matter how often she smiled at Sydney, or patted her on the shoulder, Sydney did not deceive herself that her interest was any more than superficial. She behaved, rather, as if she recognized the tiresome necessity of acknowledging Sydney’s existence, but made it plain that any further demands on her would be more than her much-tried sensibilities would bear. Of Susan, who followed quietly along behind her mother, reorganizing the chaos her parent created, Prudence seemed to take no notice at all.

Cedric had once, in the course of describing to Sydney some of the persons whom she would be likely to encounter in London, revealed that the unspoken-of Mr. Whitlatch, generally supposed to have died, had been a gambler and a wastrel, and had finally been paid a vast sum by Lyle to disappear from his family’s lives forever. This was undoubtedly, Sydney now reflected, the best thing for the young Whitlatches, but it was apparent that Prudence had never quite got over her unfortunate marital experience. While she professed great devotion to her children, she appeared also a little resentful of their demands. Her nervous laughter did not come naturally to her, and her movements were furtive, as if she still expected a bailiff to come pounding on her door. Sydney could understand why Prudence irritated Lyle, but at the same time she felt a little sorry for her.

“Mrs. Whitlatch—”

“Oh, my dear!” exclaimed that lady, stopping to pat Sydney on the shoulder again, “please call me Prue—everyone does—or at least Aunt Prudence, for you are almost one of the family, are you not?”

Sydney would have been happy to forego this distinction, but she did not say so aloud—a point that struck her as further evidence that her behaviour was improving, even if Lyle might not think so. Lyle indeed would have assumed her to be following Cedric’s advice to cultivate the good esteem of the matrons, who would smooth her path to social success. For an instant, Sydney was tempted to rebel rather than follow this advice, but common sense prevailed. Besides, she was a far better actress than Prudence, and here lay her chance to put her dissembling talents to the test! She smiled modestly and said, “Thank you, Aunt. You are very kind.’’

“Oh, no, nonsense!” Prudence protested. “One cannot refuse
dear
Andrew such a little favour, can one? Since it is perfectly obvious to me that you will be a tremendous success this season, I anticipate no difficulty at all in putting you in the way of meeting the right people—particularly since they will all be eager to meet Lyle’s ward. He may have become something of a recluse, but his name, if not his person, is still instantly recognizable by anyone pretending to be of the best Ton...”

“We shall have a good deal of shopping to do,” she went on. Carrying a bespangled gauze confection of her own to the wardrobe, she looked over Sydney’s plain kerseymere gown with a doubtful eye. “But that will be a pleasure for us both, I am certain. I know the most delightful modiste, my dear, in Henrietta Street. She is a little dear, I suppose, but I am convinced Lyle will not regard the expense, and as very few have discovered her yet, you may be sure of having the most original gowns.
That
will appeal to you, no doubt. Not that eccentricity of dress is ever appealing in a young lady, but I expect we may turn your—your interesting tastes to advantage.’’

Sydney began to have a good idea of what Lady Romney must have told Mrs. Whitlatch about her, but although an annoyed frown crossed her forehead, she again virtuously refrained from any injudicious remark.

Prudence looked into the trunk she had been unpacking and sighed. “Oh, my! Susan, dear, would you finish this one for me, please? I fear I am too, too
fatiguée
from the journey to do it myself. Jenkins will help you.’’

“Yes, Mama,” Susan replied dutifully, turning from unpacking her mama’s numerous bottles of scents and lotions from her dressing case to attack the trunk. Fortunately, Prudence’s dresser, Jenkins, came in at that moment through the door that connected Susan’s room with her mother’s, and without a word detached Susan from the trunk and marched her into her own room, from which Sydney could hear Jenkins quietly but firmly instructing Susan to lie down on her bed and rest for a moment.

Mrs. Whitlatch looked after them with a vaguely affronted expression on her plump pink face, and Sydney, fearing a renewed and reanimated catalogue of the fatigues of Prudence’s—not Susan’s or Jenkins’s—journey, drew her attention by getting up and pulling the bell.

“Dear Aunt, I have been remiss in not seeing how tired you must be! Do forgive me and allow me to send for a little refreshment. Monsieur Bernard makes the most exquisite macaroons, which I am certain will appeal to you.”

Prudence’s eyes lighted up at the mention of macaroons, and she failed to notice the faint irony in Sydney’s voice. “And now, won’t you sit on this sofa with me—it is quite comfortable—and rest for a moment?” Sydney said sweetly. “We will call for someone to help you unpack presently. What are servants for, after all?”

Sydney took a perverse delight in saying these outrageous things to Mrs. Whitlatch, who never noticed anything peculiar about them, except that Miss Archer was a much more sophisticated young lady than Lady Romney had led her to believe. Indeed, Vanessa’s description had almost made Prudence write to Lyle to decline the honour of chaperoning his ward, but the thought of what he would say in reply—even by letter—had dissuaded her from doing so.

Something of her feeling communicated itself to Sydney, for when Prudence remarked with a sigh of relief and another pat on Sydney’s head that she was a very pretty-behaved girl after all, Sydney finally could not hold her tongue.

“Aunt Prudence, did my guardian by any chance—that is, are you being
paid
to look after me?’’

“Good heavens, no!” Prudence exclaimed, a little too decidedly. “Whatever gives you such a notion? As if such a thing could be bought! To be sure, Lyle will see that I am not put to any
extra
expense and—and so on, but—oh my dear, surely you do not think I would accept
money
from Lyle?’’

So sincere did these denials appear that Sydney decided she was becoming entirely too suspicious of late, and she hastened to apologize. “I do beg your pardon, ma’am. It’s just that I do not care to be a charge on anyone—and his lordship
does
rather make one feel so.”

“Oh, my dear, I know exactly what you mean!” Prudence said feelingly. “It’s not that Andrew begrudges anyone anything. He is more than generous, as I have reason to know. But one does feel so—beholden. If it were not that his sponsorship of Susan next season will put just the necessary
imprimateur
on her debut, I declare I would do it myself rather than accept a feather from him for it. But then, one must be practical.”

Enlightened now as to precisely how Prudence would be repaid for seeing Sydney off this
season, she also could be practical. Over a plate of macaroons and a rather large glass of ratafia, and prompted by Sydney’s questions, Prudence expounded on precisely what Sydney’s season in London would entail, which was to say—although she did not say so in so many words, being less candid than Sydney—precisely what she would be obliged to do to make the brilliant match everyone staunchly believed Sydney wished to achieve. Cedric had naturally given her the male point of view in the matter, but according to what Prudence said, gentlemen often did not practice what they preached. That is, a gentleman might say he liked a girl with spirit, or a brain, or red hair, or freckles—but the chances were much greater that he would marry a meek, mindless blonde whose chiefest virtue was that she thought him the cleverest man in the world.

Prudence took a great many roundabout words to say this much and Sydney, recalling her first breakfast conversation with Cedric, thought ladies and gentlemen were perhaps in greater agreement than Prudence seemed to think they were. Furthermore, it seemed to Sydney that gentlemen—Cedric at least—regretted the necessary deceptions practiced in Society far more than the ladies—Prudence at least—did. Prudence, indeed, once warmed to her subject, showed an immoderate delight in recounting how this or that lady had entrapped this or that gentleman into offering marriage.

“If only Susan would take Miss Percy’s example to heart!” she sighed, citing the most recent outcome of a successful hunt. “Why, even an ill-favoured girl may make a good match if she goes about it properly. Not that Susan is precisely ill-favoured. She is no beauty and I, her mother, am the first to say it, but she has a respectable figure and no marked defects.”

“And a very sweet nature, from what I have observed,” Sydney added.

“Oh, yes, I suppose so. Unfortunately, a gentleman must become acquainted with her first to discover that, and if he does not take the trouble to look at her in the first place, how, pray, is he to do so? No, we will have to depend on Lyle’s name to help smooth Susan’s path. Now you, my dear, have such—such striking good looks, that no gentleman will resist turning his head to look at you, and that will be half the battle won!”