Lady John (6 page)

“It will only make you worse do I plague you for an answer,
so I had best to ignore you altogether. But aren’t you a trifle old for playing
idiotish games in your mamma’s drawing room, Kit?”

Lord Christopher replied to this accusation with a
tschk
at her lack of spirit; for the second time
in five minutes Olivia made her curtsey, and this time made good her
retirement.

After a night’s rest Olivia very nearly forgot Kit’s hints.
Brussels and her life there seemed, by and large, very long ago and very far
away, and so much pain and worry and privation had occurred there that it was
easy, now, for her to slip into forgetfulness here in the comfort of
Catenhaugh. Rather than give Lord Christopher the satisfaction of plaguing him
for the secret, Olivia chose to drive with Bette to Ely the next day, to shop
for muslin and ribbons, and to accomplish some small errands for the Duchess
and Susannah. While in the town they met an old friend of Bette’s who insisted
that the two young ladies join her in a nuncheon, displaying transparent
curiosity about Olivia. “I must see this wife that Poor Dear Lord John took!”
she murmured loudly to Bette, and Olivia, overhearing, gave in gracefully.

As the result of the long nuncheon, their hostess’s
garrulous tongue, and several procrastinating clerks at the draper’s, it was
very nearly half-past five when the chaise wheeled up the drive to deposit the
young ladies and their purchases at the front door.

“Now, we must run upstairs at once and change: Mamma
dislikes it excessively when she is kept waiting for her dinner. Although,”
Bette added consideringly, “of all the people in the house, she is the one who
could best afford to do so.”

Olivia raised a quizzing eyebrow, but said only: “As long as
we stand here talking of how your mamma dislikes to be kept from her dinner,
just so much longer will she wait, and that, along with its other undesirable
effects, would give Tylmath the opportunity to say something odious about me.”

Bette agreed so heartily with the logic of this that she
veritably dragged Olivia up the stairs and shoved her toward her apartments.
Mindful of the lateness of the hour Olivia made a rapid toilette, and was
shortly re-attired in a half-mourning gown of black lace over a lavender slip,
her bright hair hidden by a demure widow’s cap edged in more of the lace. The
abigail Bliss, continuing an argument of long standing with her mistress, made
so bold as to avow that Lady John, so pale as she was, could afford the merest
touch of rouge with that dress. Olivia replied firmly that she was not about to
afford any such thing, thank you, and that it was unworthy of her good Bliss to
mention it. Thwarted again, Miss Bliss retired muttering, but did not scruple
to own, sometime later in conversation with Melber, that her young Ladyship was
pretty as break-your-heart. Even without rouge.

Oblivious to Bliss’s judgment, Olivia scurried through the
hallway and down the long stairs to the drawing room. It had been some time
since she required a guide through the halls of Catenhaugh, and she was pleased
to find that she was not late at all when she arrived in the drawing room; only
half the party, mostly gentlemen, had preceded her.

Lady Susannah and her husband sat arguing amiably over a
trifle; Mrs. Martingale, bravely hiding her dismay, was being lectured on some
subject by the Duke; and Lord Kit was nearest the door, surrounded by a group
of gentlemen who listened with admirable patience to a rather long and involved
hunting story. All of the men faced away from her, but for a moment, mindful of
Kit’s warning, Olivia fancied there was something familiar about one of them;
something in the long, well-shaped slope of the back and neck, something in the
casual stance the man affected, head cocked slightly to one side, weight
unevenly placed on one leg. Olivia shook her head imperceptibly, glanced at the
man again, and scolded herself for a fool.

“Olivia, my dearest child,” Mrs. Martingale breathed
thankfully in her direction. Tylmath eyed his sister-at-law unenthusiastically,
and noisily said nothing.

“Good evening, Mamma. Your Grace.” She dipped slightly in
the Duke’s direction and seated herself at her mother’s side. “Have you had a
pleasant day, Mamma?”

“Of course. And so busy, too! Her Grace and I have been
reading the inventories from the Servant’s Hall and trying to think of
economies to practice; so kind in her to involve me, for I think Miss
Weedwright, though a very good creature, cannot quite compass the scope of the
job, and—Olivia?” Mrs. Martingale interrupted herself to gaze at her daughter,
who had risen to her feet and stood, staring at Lord Christopher’s circle of friends.

“Why, look, Mamma,” she managed at last, her voice uneven. “See,
it is Colonel Polry.”

Mrs. Martingale peered myopically across the room, examining
the gentlemen for familiar features. “Why, so it is, my dear,” she agreed
comfortably. “Isn’t that nice? Someone with whom you can speak of the old
times.” If Mrs. Martingale was surprised by her daughter’s singularly intent
aspect, she was certainly not about to mention it to Tylmath, who had not the
sensitivity to mark it otherwise.

“It is no longer Polry, Lady John,” the Duke was correcting
pontifically. “He is Menwin now, did you not know? Colonel Polry succeeded to
his father’s dignities over a year ago.”

“And his debts, too,” Lady Susannah added dryly. She had
crept quietly up behind her brother. “Is Menwin the old acquaintance Kit teased
you with the other evening, Olivia?”

Olivia did not bother to wonder how Lady Susannah had come
into possession of her information. “I suppose so,” she hazarded. “Colonel—that
is, Lord Menwin and I were acquainted in Brussels, I grant. I have not seen him
since before I was married.”

“Well, then you will have a great deal to say to one
another,” Lady Susannah said with satisfaction. “Menwin!”

The man turned. Matthew, Lord Menwin, was as tall as Olivia
remembered, dark complected and dark haired. His eyes, which she recalled
vividly as a light, clear gray shadowed by dark brows, were lit with laughter
as he turned, and his long, bony face, saved from harshness by a peculiarly
mobile mouth, was smiling. His eyes found Lady Susannah, recognized her brother
and, as they met Olivia’s, dimmed immediately. His casual, off-center posture
corrected itself into military stance, his smile disappeared, and although he
advanced immediately to join Tylmath and the ladies, it was clear that he did
so reluctantly.

Olivia found herself staring up at him; after a moment a shy smile touched
her lips and she offered him her hand. “Colonel, it is a great time since we met. Only I understand it is Lord
Menwin now.”

Menwin gave no answering smile; he took her hand as if he
wished to be speedily rid of it. “Miss Martingale,” he answered coolly. “I
understand that you are Lady John Temperer now. You see we are both risen in
estate.” He made a grave bow at Mrs. Martingale and stood, stolidly, for a
moment.

“You must be married by now, my lord,” Olivia hazarded
awkwardly. The look which he gave her was startled, then angry, then cool
again.

“No.” With that word he bowed again and strolled off.

“Good God, I have known Matt Polry any time these last
fifteen years, since John first brought him home at holiday, and I have never
seen him so grossly uncivil, even as a grubby schoolboy! Livvy, was there some
sort of quarrel between you two?”

Honestly at a loss and striving to hide the distress she
felt, Olivia made no answer. Mrs. Martingale, similarly applied to, said she
could thing of nothing to have caused Menwin’s behavior.

“Perhaps Menwin and my brother John had a quarrel between
them,” Tylmath suggested slyly. “I should think it more than likely.”

“You would think anything more than likely which reflected
badly on poor John,” Susannah snapped.

Tylmath, less moved by the wrath in his sister’s voice than
Mrs. Martingale’s unspoken support of her daughter, refrained from retort and
went to pay his respects to his mother, who was just now entering the room
accompanied by Lady Bette and Miss Weedwright. For several minutes Olivia, Lady
Susannah, and Mrs. Martingale sat in oppressed silence, until Susannah was
summoned to her mother’s side.

“Dearest, are you alright?” Mrs. Martingale asked
immediately. “I cannot think what has come over Colonel Polry. He used to be
such an obliging young man.”

“I cannot fathom it myself, Mamma,” Olivia answered
unevenly. “Perhaps Menwin has acquired consequence along with his title,” she
added, still smarting. “I would not have thought it of him, ever.”

“Well, perhaps dinner will improve Colo—drat, Lord Menwin’s
temper,” Mrs. Martingale finished prosaically.

Olivia nodded dully, and by the time Lady Bette joined them,
her conversation still full of jaconets, sprig-muslins and bonnet-trimming,
Olivia was able to answer her with modest enthusiasm.

But dinner was a difficult meal.

The Duchess went in on Lord Reeve’s arm, and after that, as
usual at Catenhaugh, precedence was thrown to the winds, and the ladies were
taken to dine by whoever appeared at their elbows. Olivia was not certain if
Lord Menwin was her partner by design of chance; her mother, she noted, had for
once escaped. Tylmath on the arm of Lord David Temperer, who balanced Mrs.
Martingale on one arm and his ear trumpet on the other. Tylmath was left,
finally, with Miss Weedwright, who was so overawed by the honor that she ate
nothing at all during the meal.

Throughout dinner Olivia made frequent attempts to converse
with Menwin, but while he was civil enough to answer her questions he gave no
indication of any former friendship between them, and every indication of a
strong dislike for his dinner partner.

“I never had the chance to wish you Godspeed,” Olivia began
once, as the green-goose before her was removed with oysters in stew and a
plate of sweetbreads. “In the confusion before the battle, I suppose—”

“Brussels was not in great confusion when I left the city,
ma’am. If you recall, I left Brussels nearly two months before the battle.” The
comment was addressed more to his plate than his partner, and Olivia was
conscious of the snub.

“I would have wished to say good-bye in any case, whenever
you left,” Olivia insisted evenly, holding on to her temper. “So many with whom
I was acquainted did not survive the engagements—”

“I collect that your—Temperer did.”

“Yes, he did. He spoke once of seeing you near Quatre Bras
one night.” Menwin nodded. “He was taken by the influenza in December last,
while we were still in Brussels.”

“A jest of the gods, to be sure,” Menwin murmured.

“My condolences.” And returned his attention to his plate.

Even Olivia’s determination to understand the breach in
their former friendship could not withstand this sort of treatment long. At
last she turned and, for the rest of the meal, chatted amiably with a Mr.
Guiles, another of the hunting party which had arrived that day. Mr. Guiles, an
ordinary fellow of himself, was disposed to be agreeable to the pretty widow,
and kept up a stream of nonsense which Olivia privately hoped was a reproach to
Menwin.

It was beyond probability that any of this had escaped the
Duchess. The very moment she had closeted the ladies in the drawing room after
the meal she summoned Olivia to her side.

“Well, child, what’s this mysterious feud between you and
Matt Polry?”

“Feud, ma’am?” Olivia temporized.

“Feud, ma’am?” the Duchess mimicked. “Come now, dear. I
admit your mamma has given you excellent manners, but I
will
know what is afoot in my own house.”

“To the best of my knowledge, your Grace, nothing is afoot.”

“Don’t cup up stiff with me, you idiotish gal. I collect you
knew Menwin before tonight; he ain’t likely to pick a quarrel with a stranger
woman, particularly when she’s exceedingly pretty, and a member of his host’s
family.”

However warmed she was by this nonchalant inclusion among
the Temperers, Olivia was not misled from the point. “Certainly I was
acquainted with Colonel—that is, Lord Menwin—in Brussels, ma’am. He was one of
a great number of officers whose acquaintance I made there. You may have heard
that Wellington loves to dance, and all the Bruxellois hostesses made a push to
oblige him in it.”

“So you knew Menwin only as one of his officers? How strange
that a casual acquaintance should brangle with you over dinner.”

“I found it a trifle strange myself, ma’am. Tylmath
suggested that perhaps it is because of some quarrel between John and Menwin.”

“Well, I mean to know what this is about, Olivia, but
perhaps you are not the person to ask. I shall ask Menwin by and by.” The
Duchess patted her daughter-at-law’s hand amiably; the gentlemen entering the
drawing room at that moment, Olivia was solicited by Mr. Guiles for a game of
backgammon and somewhat reluctantly left the Duchess’s sheltering presence.

Well, she rationalized, there was nothing peculiar in
her
manner; the peculiarity had been entirely on
Menwin’s side. She rolled double fours and gave her attention to her opening
move of the game, grateful for the distraction.

Mr. Guiles, for all his commonplace demeanor, proved a
mettlesome opponent. After two losses Olivia obliged herself to pay stricter
attention to her game, and was rewarded with a victory. Mr. Guiles, protesting
loudly at her skilled use of the back-game as much as at the fact that she had
won gammon from him, insisted upon another game in order to see whether her
first win had been a mere trick of chance. His jovial protests drew an audience
from other members of the party, and they began their fourth game with several
spectators, each happy to proffer some noisy piece of advice. Olivia determined
to win if she could and took up her dice.