Maggie MacKeever (14 page)

Milly giggled. “But Mme. Joliffe isn’t wishful of marrying
you!
As you would realize yourself weren’t you in the midst of taking a pet!”

Violently Sir Edward cast his newspaper to the floor. “Hen-wit!” he ejaculated. “What do you think will happen to
my
substance when I pop off?”

This particular matter had never before presented itself to Lady Camilla. “I don’t know! What?” she inquired.

“The looby will have it, providing I don’t disown him first!” Sir Edward regarded his trembling heir. “Which I shall do the instant he marries an adventuress. This Joliffe creature is clearly a hussy on the dangle for a fortune. Adolphus, you will immediately send her to the rightabout.”

“I am very sure Adolphus would like to, Papa,” responded Lady Camilla, when her brother proved bereft of speech. “But it is not so easy as that. At all events, I doubt that Mme. Joliffe
is
an adventuress, because Pennymount is much too starched-up to ally himself with such.”

Upon this introduction of his daughter’s fiancé into the conversation, Sir Edward looked even more incensed. “What the devil has Pennymount to do with anything?” said he.

“A great deal, Papa!” Seldom was Milly granted the opportunity to provide enlightenment of her knowledgeable sire. He would not like the nature of that enlightenment, she thought. “Mme. Joliffe is Lord Pennymount’s previous wife.”

Chapter Thirteen

Although Sir Edward did not murder his son and heir outright, as a result of the notice inserted by Mme. Joliffe in the
Morning Post,
he left the Honorable Adolphus trembling in his boots. Having extracted from his offspring a somewhat expurgated version of their association with Mme. Joliffe—a version in which Lady Camilla’s interest in her predecessor was mentioned not at all—Sir Edward set out immediately in search of the person most qualified to deal with avaricious ex-countesses: Lord Pennymount himself. In Sir Edward’s experience, gentlemen of leisure were seldom out of bed before noon. Therefore he adjourned to Pennymount Place.

Sir Edward misjudged his future son-in-law, and overlooked Vidal’s fondness for early-morning horseback rides, as he discovered when he arrived. Lord Pennymount’s aunts were in residence, announced the servant who opened the front door. Perhaps Sir Edward would like to speak with them? Sir Edward reflected that any relative of Lord Pennymount must have known his previous wife, and decided that he would.

Through the entry hall the servant led him, past armorial decoration and mullioned windows and scenes from the
Iliad,
across the stone floor, beneath the malevolent gaze of the shield-bearing angels who stared down from the hammerbeam roof. Pennymount Place was in need of his daughter’s artistic influence, thought Sir Edward, who did not enjoy being intimidated by a house. Yet intimidated he was. The hall was awesome enough to take the stuffing out of the most starched-up guest. Nor was the narrower Long Gallery, with its ancient furnishings, any more welcoming. His gaze fell upon the two ladies who stared at him from ancient panel-back chairs.

“Harumph!” uttered Sir Edward. Never had he felt his lowly background so keenly, never felt so unqualified to rub shoulders with the nobs. “Aethelwine, you know! Milly’s papa! M’girl’s to marry your nephew!”

The Ladies Dimity and Emmeline’s exchange of speaking glances was prompted by no dislike of Lady Camilla’s antecedents, but by a certain item espied over cups of chocolate in the
Morning Post.
Lady Emmeline had predicted that any number of interesting developments would result from the announcement that the Honorable Adolphus Aethelwine had betrothed himself to Mme. Joliffe. Lady Dimity foresaw that the fireworks were about to begin.

“Do be seated, Sir Edward!” she said kindly, noting how very uncomfortable the gentleman seemed. “How nice it is to meet Lady Camilla’s papa! She is such a charming child; you must be very proud. May we offer you some tea?”

“Thank you, no; I can’t abide the stuff!” responded Sir Edward, feeling somewhat more at ease. As for being seated, he would have liked to very much, but could discover no receptacle not already occupied by a cat. Sir Edward was not fond of cats, and did not think he cared to argue with one over the possession of a chair. He remained standing, awkwardly.

“Perhaps something stronger, then?” suggested Lady Dimity. “A drop or two of wine? Our papa was fond of a little wine in the mornings, and if he could do it I’m sure you may also, because
he
was a pillar of the church! Oh, you did not know? But why should you! My sister and I are the merest twigs on the Pennymount tree. We are not even Pennymounts at all, but Vickerses; our papa was destined for the church, being a younger son. And a very good parson he was, too! He gave lectures and taught in the village school and helped operate the Penny Bank; he organized village concerts with Hand Bell Ringing and Singing and Penny Readings. In late September we had the Tinkers’ Fair, and at Christmas there was carol singing in the rectory. Not to mention—”

“Pray don’t,” interrupted Lady Emmeline, “mention it! Sir Edward has not come here to talk about Papa, Dimmy.”

But it was not displeasure with the theme of Lady Dimity’s discourse that had inspired Sir Edward’s frown. “Vickers!” he repeated. “Not the Reverend John?”

Crestfallen at her sister’s chiding, Dimmy’s face brightened. “You knew Papa?” she breathed.

Sorry to be the cause of disappointment, Sir Edward shook his head. “I knew
of
him; he wrote a series of letters to the
Times—
sanitation, women’s rights, free trade.”

Interjected Lady Emmeline: “Our father was an advanced thinker, Sir Edward. I have always thought he was a great deal ahead of his time.”

“I don’t know how you can say that!” Lady Dimity looked sad. “When it was Papa who pointed out that the government spends less annually on educating the poor than the country spends on horse racing and the opera house! That is certainly a
very
timely sentiment! Yes, and he said also that the annual parliaments that reformers are clamoring for would only make things
worse!
And furthermore, Em, it is very cruel of you to speak so ill of Papa. I know you were used to say such things while he was with us, but he is no longer with us, and one should not speak unkindly of those who have passed on. Papa always told us so! And it is only fair that his teachings should be applied to himself.”

Some of the late Reverend John’s teachings, reflected the most pragmatic of his daughters, were best consigned quickly to oblivion. Horse racing and the opera house and annual parliaments—scant wonder Sir Edward looked ill at ease. Exasperated, she regarded her twin. “Dimmy, draw in your horns!”

This interview would not be speedily concluded, decided Sir Edward. He approached a panel-back chair and persuaded its slumbering occupant—black Tom of villainous aspect, with ragged ears and white eye-patch—to depart. Since this feat was accomplished by application of his rolled-up
Morning Post,
which he’d rescued from the floor of his drawing room and brought along in case his veracity fell in doubt, it earned him from his hostesses a disapproving stare.

How to redeem himself? Resolutely Sir Edward ignored Tom, who after stalking about the chair and growling in a most blood-curdling manner had settled down to sharpen his claws on his assailant’s boots. “I too have had occasion to write letters to the
Times.
Being a factory owner, you see!”

Indeed, the Ladies Dimity and Emmeline did see: before them all unwitting sat a man the likes of whom their papa had lamented loud and long. “The Factory Act of 1802 tried to establish a minimum standard for the employment of children,” Lady Emmeline said severely, “forbidding their employment for more than twelve hours a day. I hope that you abide by that Act, Sir Edward, even if Parliament does refuse to pay the commissioners appointed to insure its enforcement.”

“Oh!” wailed Lady Dimity, snatching up Grimalkin and pressing his furry body against her cheek. “Those poor children! Orphaned and destitute! Sent to the factories by Poor Relief administrators! The thought makes one’s heart bleed.”

The thought of being deprived of his cheapest source of labor made Sir Edward’s own heart quiver, and the critical sentiments expressed by his hostesses put him irritably in mind of similar comments made by reform-minded MP’s and reported zealously in the press. He did not interrupt the ladies, despite his annoyance. No lowly social upstart would dare rip up at aristocrats born and bred. When a lull came in the strictures being heaped upon him, Sir Edward meekly protested that he believed working conditions in his factories were better than most.

“You
believe
so?” Lady Dimity repeated scornfully, above the blissful rumble of Grimalkin’s purr. “Sir, you must take measures to find out! Papa felt very strongly on that subject—why, it is almost as if he directed Sir Edward to us, Em!”

Lady Emmeline tapped her fingers on the curved arm of her panel-back chair, and said: “Pshaw! This gentleman didn’t come here to listen to us boring on about the Factory Act. Let us come to the point! You are disturbed by a certain item in this morning’s newspapers, sir.”

“Disturbed!” Sir Edward brandished the
Morning Post,
an action he immediately regretted, since it gave Tom the erroneous impression that he wished to play. Tom had exceedingly sharp claws and an impressive leap, Sir Edward discovered, via the insertion of those claws into his flesh.

“Tom
likes
you!” cried Lady Dimity, amazed. “That is quite a compliment, Sir Edward! Tom is standoffish as a rule. Well, isn’t this nice!”

With that adjective, Sir Edward felt inclined to quibble, finding himself abruptly eye to eye—Tom’s hind paws being planted firmly on Sir Edward’s thighs, forelegs on his belly, and whiskers tickling his chin— with a very ferocious-looking feline. Cautiously Sir Edward shifted positions. Tom displayed his gleaming teeth. Sir Edward froze.

“You probably do not care for your son’s betrothal to Jessabelle,” continued Lady Emmeline, wondering why Sir Edward still looked so ill-at-ease. “But you must not be put off by her divorce. Even though your daughter is affianced to our nephew, I do not scruple to tell you that Vidal can be a brute.”

“So I’ve heard, ma’am.” Because he dared not look away from his tormentor, Sir Edward appeared to be addressing the cat. “Fact is, I’m dashed if I understand why Milly wants him—but she says she does, so that’s that! Not that I make any brief for Pennymount, but one can hardly blame him for divorcing a female who goes about biting people and kicking clocks. And I’ll tell you this, ladies: Mme. Joliffe may be Pennymount’s cross to bear but she needn’t think to likewise be mine!”

“Yours, sir?” Lady Dimity looked perplexed. “I thought it was your son Jessabelle wished to wed.”

“No female in her right mind,” responded Sir Edward frankly, “would
wish
to marry Dolph! No female who wasn’t on the dangle for a fortune, that is.  Though he’s in the hands of the bloodsuckers now, the lad will have a fortune, heaven help us, when I pop off.”

Lady Dimity was, by this unflattering description, wholly overset. “Oh!” she wailed, and scooped up Marmalade in her other arm. Grimalkin eyed the newcomer in a distinctly hostile manner. “Poor Jess!”

“My sister and I are very fond of Jessabelle,” Lady Emmeline explained. “I cannot believe that she is dangling after anyone’s fortune. It is true that she is a trifle cynical, but that is a result of her unfortunate circumstances. I’m sure she would make any gentleman a very good wife.”

In Lady Dimity’s opinion, the gentleman to whom Jessabelle would make the best of all possible wives was the gentleman by whom she had been divorced. Since she could hardly air this opinion to the father of that gentleman’s current fiancée, she cuddled her cats closer, thus placing Marmalade’s plump tail in tantalizing proximity to Grimalkin’s teeth. “Poor, poor Jess!” she wailed.

“Take a damper, Dimmy!” advised her sister, energetically stroking Puss and Tab, who were draped across her lap. “I will admit that the news of a betrothal took us by surprise, Sir Edward. Jessabelle made no mention of your son to us. Perhaps
he
has been more forthcoming to you?”

“Hah! I’ll say he has! He knew what would happen to him if he had not.” Cautiously Sir Edward clasped his hands around Tom’s fuzzy midriff, shoved the cat off his lap. Delighted by this show of affection, Tom broke out into a throaty purr and leapt right back up again, there to zealously knead his new friend’s plump belly. To the list of individuals he was fit to murder, just below the name of his son and heir, Sir Edward added the cat. “You say Mme. Joliffe ain’t a designing sort, but telling a female she’s fine as fivepence ain’t the same as offering her your hand in wedlock, as this Jessabelle should know very well, even if Dolph
don’t!
You’ll forgive my plain speaking, ladies, because I don’t know any prettier way to put it.”

Realizing what manner of offer the Honorable Adolphus had meant to offer Jessabelle, Lady Dimity gasped. Lady Emmeline cast her sister a severe glance. “Please
do
speak frankly, Sir Edward!” she invited. “We are not so unworldly as you may think. Your son meant to offer Jessabelle a slip on the shoulder, I collect, but she persuaded him he wished to marry her instead. Are you certain that’s what transpired?”

“As certain as I am that the wench is a brass-faced monkey set on luring my son into a ruinous entanglement! The hussy invited him to kiss her, and he did. And then she said marriage to him would suit her to a pig’s whisker, and promised she’d bring me about, which I promise you she
shan’t!”

“A pig’s whisker?” repeated Lady Dimity. “Oh, dear! But I shouldn’t think it
would!
Jessabelle is a charming creature, even if Vidal did make her dishonorable. I wouldn’t think she’d be at all suited by marriage with someone so lacking in good sense.”

“By Jove!” Though Sir Edward might speak censoriously of his son and heir, he did not take it kindly that his hostesses should voice similar insults. Nor did he approve their cavalier attitude toward his physical well-being, as evidenced by a patent unconcern with the cat so zealously kneading his belly. Abruptly Sir Edward stood, tumbling Tom to the floor. “Talking won’t pay toll! You may tell Pennymount that I expect him to straighten out this tangle!” he snapped, and took his leave, the dignity of his exit only slightly marred by Tom, who wove hissing and snarling between his feet.