Pretty Polly (7 page)

“And what,” said Lady Wythe, looking at the parrot who was stalking up and down in front of the bench on which they sat, its head bowed like an anxious old lawyer, “will Denbigh think when, instead of meeting the authoress of all these charming letters, he meets Mrs. Manners?”

“I do not know what you mean,” said Verity.

“Oh, yes, you do,” said the countess. “I only wish I could be there to see the fun. Here comes Mr. George Wilson to talk to you. A good prospect, if you are interested. He has a comfortable fortune and is not ill-favored. The only drawback is that he lives with his widowed mother.”

“And why should that be a drawback?”

“’Tis said she is determined to be the only female in the Wilson household. I have no patience with such selfishness.”

Verity experienced a qualm of conscience. Did her father really want to marry? And was her own single state what was preventing him from doing so?

She smiled with more warmth than usual at Mr. Wilson as he approached. He was a pleasant-looking man. He had only two pockmarks on his face and his brown hair was thick and springy. He was soberly but fashionably dressed. His legs were a trifle bowed.

“I tried to call on you yesterday,” began Mr. Wilson, “but I was told that you were not at home to anyone.”

“It is Mrs. Manners who is not at home at present,” said Verity. “She is expecting an important visitor at the weekend.”

“And who is that?”

Verity saw no reason to keep the duke’s visit a secret. “Denbigh,” she said.

“Our new duke? That will put more hearts than Mrs. Manners’s in a flutter. But not yours, I trust, Miss Bascombe?”

“Now, how can I get in a flutter about a man I have never seen,” teased Verity.

“Oh, Denbigh is very dashing. Quite the heart-breaker,” said Mr. Wilson gloomily. “Will you walk with me a little, Miss Bascombe? That is, if you will excuse us, Lady Wythe.”

Lady Wythe inclined her head gracefully. “Go ahead, Miss Bascombe,” she said. “I shall watch your creatures for you.”

Verity walked sedately with Mr. Wilson. He was a thoroughly worthy gentleman, she thought. Perhaps
love was something you really had to work at. Perhaps all the books and poems lied. For she had seen no man in London to stir her feelings even in the slightest.

The Duke of Denbigh’s town house turned a blank, unscalable wall to Cavendish Square. Like many of the aristocracy, his father had opted for a fortresslike appearance outside and kept all the elegance and grandeur for the inside.

The present duke had toyed with the idea of having the wall torn down. It had been built originally to protect the house and its inmates from the mobs that had thronged Oxford Street on the road to Tyburn on hanging days. But now the hangings were outside Newgate, and Oxford Street had become respectable.

But as Denbigh viewed the square, it looked so much like the same bleak square he had hated as a little boy that he decided to let the wall stand. Looking over the railings of the square as his carriage turned into it, he saw the sooty black trees still surrounding the dreary grass plot in the center with the equestrian statue of the Duke of Cumberland, “Butcher” Cumberland who had massacred so many of the Scotch. A few miserable governesses, huddled in shawls against the biting wind, shepherded wan-faced schoolboys round and round
for their daily constitutional. Like a prison yard, thought the duke.

Behind him came carriage after carriage bearing his staff. The town house had been kept by a caretaker and his wife, as his father had not used it in years and the duke himself had not been there since he was a boy. There had been no time to send the servants in advance to make things ready.

He entered and walked slowly through the silent, enormous rooms. In a saloon on the first floor, the chandeliers hung shrouded in their Holland bags, and the long looking glasses at either end of the room made it seem even more enormous.

He could hear his servants’ muttered exclamations of dismay. But the caretaker was old and infirm and could not be expected to prepare the mansion with only the help of his equally aged wife. The duke had not realized until his arrival how old and infirm the man was. Time to give him a generous pension and retire him.

Soon a fire was blazing in the library to dispel the chill. He stood in front of it and thought of Charlotte Manners. Now that he was in London, now that he could see her any time he liked, he felt he had been too precipitate. He would hold an impromptu party in two or three days’ time, some cards and music and supper, and invite her to that.

All Saturday, Charlotte waited in a fever of excitement, running to the window every time she heard the sound of a horse or a carriage. She had changed her gown five times by late afternoon.

“What has happened?” she asked Verity for what seemed the hundredth time.

“Perhaps he has been delayed on the road,” said Verity, smoothing down the folds of her burgundy silk gown with a nervous hand. “Perhaps it might
be an idea to send one of the footmen around to Cavendish Square just to look, you know. The house has a very high wall in front of it, but if the duke has arrived, there should be a great deal of coming and going.”

Charlotte rang the bell and ordered Pomfret to send a footman immediately to Cavendish Square.

The day was turning dark and a thin, greasy drizzle had begun to fall. Verity wandered over to the window and looked out at the dripping plane trees in the square. A lamplighter was going on his rounds with his ladder and can of whale oil. Soon the lights of Berkeley Square began to flicker in the increasing gloom. Verity shivered. The drawing room was very cold.

“It might be an idea to light a fire in here,” she suggested. “You are but recently recovered, Charlotte, and also, when the duke arrives, he would perhaps be cheered by the sight of a welcoming blaze.”

Charlotte nodded and ordered a fire to be made up. Verity sighed with relief. She did not want to put a shawl over her splendid gown. After all, she had gone to such trouble to make it that it would be a pity if the duke did not see it.

James, the second footman, returned with the intelligence that the duke had indeed arrived. There were lights in all the rooms in the upper storeys of the mansion.

“It is six o’clock,” said Verity. “He will not call now.”

“He must!” said Charlotte furiously. The greyhound trotted in front of her and she lashed out at the animal with her foot. She missed it, but Tray cowered and fled to the shelter of Verity’s skirts.

There came a brisk knocking at the street door.
Charlotte ran to a chair by the fire and arranged herself gracefully.

Both ladies waited anxiously. Then Pomfret came in with a letter, which he handed to Charlotte. She recognized Denbigh’s seal and tore it open. Verity found she was holding her breath.

“Fiddle!” said Charlotte furiously. “He has invited me to a small party on Tuesday evening. That means I shall not have the advantage over anyone else. I should have read those letters you sent, Verity. You obviously did a bad job.”

Verity kept her temper with an effort. “You turned him down once. The fact that he has invited you at all is a credit to my skill.”

“So you say,” commented Charlotte nastily. “And as you are not included in the invitation, you cannot go.
Such
a pity after all the effort you went to to make that gown!”

Verity went up to her room in a fury. “I don’t care,” she said aloud. “I simply don’t care. It has nothing to do with me. I must write to Papa and get him to give me a firm date for his return.”

But when she went to bed that night and felt two thumps as the dog and cat leaped in beside her, she did not shoo them off. Tray was pressed on one side of her and Peter, the cat, on the other. Pretty Polly shuffled up and down on the bed head before falling asleep.

Verity felt a rush of affection for these pets of Charlotte’s. At least someone likes me, she thought, before turning over and going to sleep.

When Charlotte entered the state saloons on the first floor of the duke’s mansion on Tuesday and surveyed the assembled guests, her heart sank right down to her sky-blue kid slippers. The other people invited seemed to consist of all of London’s
most aged and highest sticklers, and, oh, dear, there was that old fright, Lady Wythe, sitting by the fire and looking wickedly amused about something.

Charlotte was wearing a very pretty sky-blue muslin gown. She saw her reflection in one of the long looking glasses and frowned. She was wearing six ostrich plumes in her hair, all dyed sky-blue to match her gown. Verity had suggested the effect was a trifle top-heavy, and Charlotte had replied by saying, “What does a provincial little nobody know about fashion?” But the feathers
did
look ridiculous. Then Charlotte realized that since she had begun to take Verity everywhere with her, Verity’s very presence assured her, Charlotte, of a warm welcome. There was something about Verity that seemed to melt the heart of the flintiest dowager.

The duke had been talking to Mr. and Mrs. Hatfield, an elderly couple whom Charlotte had once snubbed. He turned, saw Charlotte, and smiled.

Charlotte felt as if all the breath had been knocked out of her body. She had forgotten he was so very handsome. He was wearing a black evening coat, and his black pantaloons were molded to his muscled legs to just above his ankles. He was wearing green-and-gold-striped silk stockings and flat black shoes.

He crossed immediately to Charlotte’s side and stood smiling down at her. He raised her hand to his lips. “I trust you are recovered from your illness, Mrs. Manners?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you,” said Charlotte, blushing adorably and looking down at her feet.

“I must thank you,” he went on, “for your charming and delightful letters.”

“Thank you,” mumbled Charlotte, unusually tongue-tied.

“And how are Tray and Peter and that parrot with the ridiculous name?”

With an effort, Charlotte realized he was talking about her pets.

“Tiresome as usual,” she said.

He laughed and Charlotte wondered what she had said that was so amusing. “You cannot fool me, Mrs. Manners,” he said. “I know from your letters that you quite dote on them.”

She raised her eyes fleetingly to his, and he saw with surprise the brief flash of shock followed by irritation in them. Charlotte was thinking, Damn, Verity, why did she have to drivel on about that useless zoo?

She contented herself by saying, “Mmm,” and then added brightly, “Now that you are in town, Denbigh, you must agree it is a vastly more interesting place than the country.”

“It has certain attractions, I agree,” he murmured, and Charlotte gave him a flirtatious look and raised her fan to her face. “I was interested in your description of your meeting with Monk Lewis.”

“Oh, that,” said Charlotte, remembering that tedious evening with dismay. What would Verity have written? Verity was a bit of a bluestocking. She must have enthused like mad. “Yes, he is a divinely interesting man,” Charlotte went on. “Those piercing eyes, that noble forehead.”

“You have certainly changed your views,” said the duke. “As I recall, you thought he had eyes like those of an insect.”

Charlotte laughed, that tinkling laugh she had practiced so often. She rapped him playfully on the shoulder with her fan. “Oh, you must allow us ladies to change our minds,” she said.

At that moment, the Countess of Wythe rose from her seat by the fire and came to join them.

“I do not see Miss Bascombe,” she said.

Charlotte looked at the countess with dislike. “Miss Bascombe was not invited,” she said.

“Who is Miss Bascombe?” asked the duke.

“She is a lady who went to the same Bath seminary as I,” said Charlotte. “She is not very good
ton,
a country lawyer’s daughter, but I felt it would do the poor thing good to have some fun.”

“I am a friend of Miss Bascombe,” said the dowager. “A most entertaining lady. She has become quite a feature in Hyde Park when she walks along with her dog, cat, and parrot.”

“
My
dog, cat, and parrot,” Charlotte said between her teeth.

“Of course.” The countess gave a crocodile smile. “But the creatures are so devoted to Miss Bascombe, and she to them, that I had quite forgotten.”

Then Lady Wythe looked brightly from the duke’s puzzled face to Charlotte’s furious one, with her head cocked to one side like a bird looking for worms.

“Do walk with me a little, Your Grace,” said Charlotte, now desperate to get away from the dowager.

He bowed to Lady Wythe and held out his arm courteously to Charlotte. “I am so glad there is to be dancing,” said Charlotte, peeping up at him. “I long to dance.”

“Alas, I had meant to have dancing,” said the duke ruefully. “But I had not realized I had asked so many elderly people. I am afraid it is going to be an evening of cards and gossip.”

Charlotte saw they were approaching Mr. and Mrs. Hatfield and tugged a little at the duke’s arm to turn him about, but he bowed to the Hatfields
and came to a stop. He glanced down at Charlotte in surprise and irritation. She should have curtsied to the Hatfields, but she stood unmoving, possessively holding on to his arm.

As if to highlight Charlotte’s lack of manners, Mrs. Hatfield sank into a deep court curtsy and Mr. Hatfield gave a magnificent bow punctuated with many wavings of his handkerchief and a long scrape of his foot along the floor.

The duke bowed low in return, and there was nothing else Charlotte could do but release his arm and drop a curtsy.

“You promised us cards, Denbigh,” said Mr. Hatfield.

“And you shall have them,” the duke replied. “The tables are already set up in the adjoining room.” He turned and announced that the card playing was about to begin. In the general push to the card room, Charlotte was jostled aside and ended up making up a foursome at whist with a tall colonel, his wife, and a thin, faded spinster.

Charlotte always cheated at cards. Since she usually played cards only with adoring young men, she got away with it. But the spinster called Miss Jessop exclaimed in a strident voice, “You are cheating, Mrs. Manners, and it will not do.”