Escapade (21 page)

Clare didn't bother pretending to misunderstand this cryptic statement. “The pond is only three hundred yards away,” he replied.

“Pity we can't see it for that bunch of bushes you have there. Wonder what they're up to."

“It wouldn't take ten minutes to toss Green Boy into the water and get back here."

“No, he's up to something. I'd give a monkey to know what. Wonder if they've taken that raft out for a sail."

“They might have fallen in."

“That's as good an excuse as any to go after them,” Bippy replied, and they strode together at a rapid gait towards the pond.

No such awful fate had befallen the miscreant couple. They had not gone near the raft at all, but were skipping flat stones over the pond, laughing and shouting, and amusing themselves very agreeably.

“So, this is where you've got to,” Bippy charged in an injured tone.

“We came to put Green Boy back in the pond,” Peters said.

“Did that more than half an hour ago,” Bippy said.

“Are we late for lunch?” Ella asked. “Oh, I hope we have not kept everyone waiting. I had no idea it was so late."

“It ain't. We just wondered what was keeping you two."

“We were afraid you might have fallen into the pond,” Clare explained, feeling unaccountably foolish in the face of Bippy's accusing tone.

“This puddle's only two feet deep,” Peters replied. “Said so yourself. We are playing ducks and drakes. Miss Fairmont can skip a stone six times, Pa'k. Did you ever see such a girl? I can't get mine to go more than four."

“You only did that once,” Ella told him. “And I still think that last skip was only a frog surfacing, for it didn't arc at all from the last one."

“No, by Jove, it was four, I swear."

“Don't contradict a lady,” Bippy adjured severely.

“I ain't, only I'm sure it skipped four times."

“You can't do it again anyway,” Ella challenged him.

“I can so, only I'll have to take off this curst jacket. Stultz makes ‘em so tight you can't get a proper throw at all.” He proceeded to remove the jacket, and was roundly roasted when his next stone sank ignominiously immediately it hit the pond, without even one skip.

“It was clearly the coat's fault,” Ella commented.

“Ho, I can do better than that,” Bippy proclaimed.

“You could hardly do worse,” Clare said, reaching down for a stone with which to test his own prowess. It skipped only the once, and Bippy had no better luck when he tried it.

In view of their shocking ignorance of the noble art, Miss Fairmont took pity on them and explained that the secret was in getting the throwing arm laid out at a right angle to the body, so that the stone would skim parallel to the pond's surface. Without the least difficulty, her next stone skipped the pond's surface five times before sinking from sight.

“This girl's double-jointed,” Peters complained. “I can't get my arm out at such an angle to my body. Do it again, will you?"

Ella complied, and again the stone skipped five times.

“The stones are too round, that's the trouble,” Bippy said, when his next effort produced only two hops.

“If they ain't too round for Miss Fairmont, they ain't too round for us,” Peters replied, and on his next throw he repeated his former success of four hops. “Let's see you match that, Clare."

Clare reached down and selected a handful of the flattest stones he could find. His skill was equal to Peters', and a good deal better than Bippy's, but though they all skipped stones and insulted each other mutually for close to half an hour, no one could match Miss Fairmont, who regularly and effortlessly hopped her stones five or six times. She once outdid herself and achieved seven hops. Only Peters saw this feat, and he was reduced to great shame.

“Deuce take it, what a bunch of flats we are, that not one of us three men can equal a girl's record. You must be double-jointed, Miss Fairmont. I swear you've got your arm skewed out at an angle different from the rest of us."

“I have been practicing on and off since I was a child,” she explained in a placating and slightly smug manner.

“So have I,” Peters admitted. “That's no excuse."

“It's us that need an excuse,” Bippy said. “Miss Fairmont don't need an excuse for beating us all hollow."

“No, by Jove, she is always up to anything,” Peters agreed, recovering his spirits. “And she was right about Green Boy, too. He was back in form, snapping up flies and what not within minutes of being put back in the pond. We knew it was him by the string we tied on his leg."

They all began scanning the pond for Green Boy, and while they were engaged in this fruitless task, a footboy came down the hill and summoned them for lunch. Some rather extensive cleaning up was required after their game, and it happened that they all four reached the front hall together about ten minutes later, ready for luncheon. Ella was completely unaware of the consternation she caused when she walked into the small dining hall, accompanied by three of the four gentlemen who made up the party.

Sherry was still pouting and patting her curly locks, but Belle immediately sought to turn attention to its proper quarter. “Have you been in the ballroom admiring our flower arrangements, Clare?” she asked.

“No, but I shall certainly do so after lunch. Sorry we have kept you waiting."

“We've been down at the pond skipping stones,” Peters blurted out, a fact which the more circumspect of the group would have as lief not mentioned. “Miss Fairmont can skip a stone from one side of the pond to the other."

“How talented!” Belle said angrily. “Ella appears to be skilled in the unlikeliest areas. Tell me, Ella, do you sing at all, or paint, or play the pianoforte, or do any of the things ladies usually do?"

“Only a very little,” Ella replied frankly, wondering anew at Belle's spite and lack of finesse in showing it so obviously.

“You must have ruined your gown,” Sherry said. “We can't get the brown spots out of the muslin I wore the day you made us all chase frogs."

“Try lemon juice, dear,” Lady Sara counseled.

“Yes, you brought a whole bag of them with you, didn't you, Sherry, to bleach your freckles?” Belle asked innocently. With time's winged chariot pushing them so mercilessly, they were all on edge and trying any device to detract from the competition.

Even Lady Honor entered the fray, in her own irrelevant manner. “I planted six lemon seeds, and three of them sprouted, at Strayward,” she said.

Sherry was so miffed at the falsity of Belle's charge that she didn't even acknowledge this utterance from the daughter of a marquis. “
I
am not subject to freckles, Miss Prentiss,” she retorted. “They usually go with red hair. Mama does have some lemons though, if you would like to try some to bleach out your freckles for Clare's ball."

“One of them is three inches high,” Lady Honor added.

This dictum too was ignored. “No, no,
I
don't spend all day worrying about my looks, the way some people do,” Belle shot back, while still smiling politely.

“A pity,” Mrs. Sheridan said, with a quick perusal of her daughter's tormentor.

Mrs. Prentiss could not allow this slur on her daughter's appearance to go unchallenged, and she went into a spiel on the far-flung accomplishments of her daughter.

“Oh, yes, we know Belle is up to anything,” Mrs. Sheridan snapped. “There is no end to her accomplishments, and her interminable demonstrations of them.” She sat huffing in agitation, and sprinkled sugar on her cold cuts by mistake.

This was too lively a discussion for Lady Honor. She retired from the fray and busied herself with the plate of smoked salmon. Ella felt acutely uncomfortable and kept her eyes on her plate, but Sara and Clare exchanged a silent smile. Such scenes of jealousy were no novelty to him, and this one pleased Lady Sara very well. Any chance either of them had ever had was effectually laid to rest now.

The Dowager feared the meal would turn into a cat fight, as she later told her son, so to forestall the possibility, she made public a piece of news she had received by the morning's post. She had meant to give Clare a private warning first, but it proved impossible.

“I have had a note from Lord Strayward this morning,” she said, addressing herself to the Marchioness, who did not appear much interested to hear it. Clare, on the other hand, was deeply alarmed. His fork clattered to his plate from the involuntary and quite violent jerk of his wrist.

“Yes,” the Duchess continued, “he will arrive today and accompany you and Honor back to London."

“Why did he think it necessary to come so far out of his way?” Clare asked. “Strayward is miles east of here. The ladies might have stopped on their way to London and gone on with him from there.” The question was neither necessary, nor was it really answered. There was no doubt why he was coming. He was making himself available to accept an offer for his daughter's hand. Plain as a pikestaff. Not satisfied with shoving that pale lump of a girl on to him to entertain for a week, he now meant to make her a life tenant. Action must be taken, and it was bound to be unpleasant. He would not be coerced into offering for Honor, if he had to shove the whole family out the door by main force.

“I don't know,” his Mama said, giving the reply a questioning tone, in hopes that the Marchioness would enlighten her.

“He didn't write to me; not a line,” she was told.

“Very likely it has something to do with the election at Bournemouth,” the Dowager suggested. “He'd be backing Sempleton."

“Yes, he will be for the Tory,” his wife asserted. Strayward was active in politics.

“Then he will be backing the loser,” Clare said. What little partiality he felt in politics was for the Whigs.

“England will be the loser in that case,” Lady Honor said, with an uncharacteristic emphasis. She nearly frowned at Clare.

“When does he come?” Clare asked.

“He expects to arrive late this afternoon,” his mother replied.

Not so bad then, Clare thought. The party were all leaving early next morning, and there was the ball this evening. He would play least in sight and try to avoid a confrontation. It was damnably unpleasant to offend these well-connected peers that one must go on meeting everywhere.

Clare hid in his study after lunch and around 4:00 rode to Kitswell to round up his business at the orphanage. He intended to return home only in time to change for dinner. How his guests spent their afternoon he neither knew nor cared. The ladies, he supposed, would be busy preparing for the ball, and Bippy and the gentlemen could amuse themselves out of doors. The weather was good. Clare left Kitswell just before 6:00—no country hours for dinner on the day of the ball. He cantered home alone, his mind ranging over a wide field of thought.

The ghost of Lady Honor obtruded itself, of course, and a morose picture followed of himself married to that lifeless body. He could vividly picture her setting her arm on his sleeve and saying “I will marry you,” as she said “I will go with you,” whenever there was a trip in the offing. Impossible! Still it was time, and past time, to marry someone. Sherry? A beautiful little widgeon. How Mama would rail if he offered for her! And how dull life would be, once one was accustomed to her beauty. Truth to tell, her physical charms were beginning to pall already. No, she was fine to look at, and her absurd utterances were mildly amusing, but one did not marry a mannequin. Belle? She was lively enough. Always had some rig running. And yet, there were those interminable demonstrations of her talents, as Mrs. Sheridan had so sweetly pointed out.

The other nubile lady under his roof he considered the longest of all. Miss Fairmont had definitely caught his fancy. Not beautiful—yet not quite plain either. A surprising prettiness—something in her eyes—when she smiled at you unexpectedly. Mama liked her, which was nice, but not necessary. Yes, of the four, she was the only one he could envisage living with without running mad. A soft smile curved his lips to think of her surprise when he told her. What would she say? Something outrageous. Yet she was no stranger to masculine attentions. Harley and Peters were infatuated with her and, of course, Bippy was really the one who had discovered her. In fact, twice that very day it had been pointed out to him that Peters was dangling after her. A little tension stirred in his breast when he recalled her setting off for the pond with Peters and staying so long alone with him. She might be with him now. He urged his horse on to a faster pace, without realizing he was doing so, or why.

He rode into the stable and was relieved to see Strayward had not arrived yet. He walked around to the front of the house to see if his carriage was coming. It wasn't. Deciding to go in at the east entrance to have a look at the ballroom, to satisfy Belle who would certainly demand praise, he walked back in that direction towards his Mama's rose garden. It was sadly depleted after the morning's foray, and he looked around, frowning slightly. He heard a rustling behind him, from the stone bench on the other side of a planting of yellow rose bushes. He turned and saw Ella just arising, with a book in her hand.

“Ah, Ella,” he said, smiling. “Looking into that book of Kant's I recommended, are you?"

“No, sir, I am enjoying the cynicism of La Rochefoucauld. What a nasty person he was to be sure. Suspected everyone of being as vile as he was himself."

“I like him excessively,” Clare replied, solely for the sake of a little argument.

“Now isn't that a coincidence?” she replied. “I thought of you while I was reading his maxims and made sure you would agree."

“With the cynical, venomous old rascal,” Clare added agreeably.

“Just so."

“Tell me, which of his maxims brought me to mind. I can think of nothing more interesting than a discussion of myself."

“It was rather the
tone
of them than one particular maxim."

“Cynical. No, really. Is that what you think of me?"

“Well, not precisely, but I think that is what you would like people to think of you,” she said.

He walked around the rose bushes to join her. “Perhaps I give that impression. I hope you are coming to know me better.” He took her hand, indicating that she was to be seated again on the stone bench.