Second Season (3 page)

“Never mind your opinions, it’s your job to get us to London today. No brangling, you understand? Come along, Emily.”

“I feel sick again.”

“You won’t be, darling. There’s nothing left but queasiness, you’ll be better directly you sit down,” but one glance at the long dark hall leading to Lady Stanwood’s parlor was too much for Emily.

“I have to sit down
now
!”

“All right, darling.” Hastily Charlotte opened the nearest door to reveal a second parlor, and supported Emily to a chair. “There you are!” She applied herself to removing her sister’s bonnet and stroking her forehead gently.

Behind her a deep voice said harshly, “This is a private room, madam. Be good enough to leave at once.”

Startled, Charlotte looked over her shoulder to face a dark-visaged man lounging in the farther chair by the fire. His long legs were encased in dusty boots and propped on the hearth guard. A many-caped driving coat was thrown carelessly on the settle with a shallow-crowned beaver atop. In one hand he held a balloon glass of brandy, in the other was a cigarillo with a curl of smoke rising up, and his black eyes were hard as obsidian.

Charlotte suppressed herself. “I beg your pardon for the intrusion, sir. I did not know the room was occupied.”

“Well, now you do. I’ve just told you. Pray remove yourselves, I’ve no taste for female companionship at the moment.”

“Nor we for that of men,” Charlotte flashed, “
even were
they gentlemen ... and if, as I collect, you are the whipster driving that curricle, allow me to tell you that
you
are entirely to blame that my sister is completely overset.”

He set aside glass and cigarillo, hauling himself to his feet with eyes blazing. “By God, madam, allow me to tell
you
that no whipster could have got around your dawdling coach without a catastrophe! The London Turnpike is not meant for ‘taking the air’ at two miles an hour,” he thundered. “If you’ve a wish to sniff the countryside, enjoy a view, take the side roads. A turnpike is intended for business traveling with fast horses. Even the mail and baggage coaches do better than ten miles an hour ... and for you to be twiddling along, half-stopped on a blind curve, is courting far more danger than a mere wheel graze!”

“Oh, please, Sharlie!” Emily whispered, agonized.

“Yes, darling. Can you stand and lean on me?” Charlotte supported her sister’s trembling form, turned silently for the door, but Emily was mindful of her manners.

With an effort, but very pretty dignity, she said, “I do beg your pardon, sir. It was only momentary weakness. We will withdraw to our own parlor.”

The black eyes widened incredulously as Emily’s lovely face came into view. She gave him one glance of tear-drenched gentian blue eyes, one timid half smile, and stepped resolutely to the hall. “Oh, I say,” he’d come out of his bemusement and strode forward, “it’s I who should beg your pardon for my filthy temper, ma’am. Pray, allow me to assist you—or should you not sit down again, and I will remove myself until you feel more the thing?”

“Indeed, we will not trouble you longer, sir,” Charlotte said demurely, bubbling inside at Emily’s effect on him. Lady Stanwood was coming along the hall with the landlady behind her. Charlotte delivered Emily’s tottering figure to them, and looked back at her involuntary host. “I bid you good day, sir—and if you are for London, I trust you will leave before us?” Gently, she shut the door and followed her mother.

Behind her the parlor door opened again—violently. “I say...” With infinite relish, Sharlie ignored him. Without a backward glance, she proceeded along the hall and entered the rear parlor. One quick sideways peek she had: he was standing, stricken, gazing after them. Then she quietly closed their door.

CHAPTER II

Fortified by tea and plain rusks, Emily declared herself perfectly able to continue. “Are you quite
sure
?” her mother asked. “Once the decision is made, it cannot be changed—but nothing is simpler than to send the postillion to Cousin Emma and break our journey overnight at Stevenage.”

“No, no, I shall be quite all right, mama. I am certain I have got my ‘coach legs,’ ” Emily said gaily, “like the sailors who talk of ‘sea legs.’ Do let us go straight on and sleep in our own home.”

It did seem she was restored by the hour’s rest. So were the horses. In February, London was devoid of company. Lady Stanwood’s coach threaded easily through sparse traffic to reach Park Street only an hour behind time. Lingering while her mother and sister ascended the entrance steps, Charlotte asked the footman, “Who was driving that curricle?”

“His Grace, the Duke of Imbrie, Miss Stanwood. Coachman had a word with the groom—not even a Frenchie
he
was, but from some outlandish country you never hear’d of—but pleasant-spoken, I
will
say. There weren’t no brangling. Coachman said as how groom explained the Duke had no choice, wot with London mail coach on t’other side of road and him poled up with his bays that hadn’t had a run in a week. He had to chance it, Miss Stanwood, and for all it was startling to her Ladyship and Miss Emily, coachman says he’s never seen sweeter handling of the ribbons! Four-Horse Club his Grace is, and the curricle built to his own design.”

“Ah? Thank you, Thomas.” She gave him the pleasant smile that made every Stanwood servant her friend, and went up to the front hall, where she found her mother seated regally on a chair hastily brought from the salon. Lined up before her were all the house servants, in states ranging from alert attention (the housekeeper), to calm self-confidence (the chef), to abject terror (a very small tweeny). It was her ladyship’s custom always to inspect the staff upon arrival, inquiring the name of any newly hired person. Park Street was never entirely closed, but out of season it was thought unnecessary to maintain more than housekeeper, chef, three maids and two footmen. Thus there were always new faces when Lady Stanwood came for the Season.

She would conduct this one interview, issue a number of commands, convince newcomers she was a tartar—and subsequently leave all to the housekeeper. Exactly this scene had occurred last year, but today Sharlie interpreted differently. She saw that within thirty minutes, her mother had re-established the staff hierarchy by approval of the permanent members, and gained willing service from augmentees by a show of interest. Nor would Lady Stanwood forget any name or face for so long as a person remained. She chose the key positions carefully, made them responsible for smooth functioning, and interfered only when absolutely necessary. Very thoughtfully, Charlotte followed her mother up the stairs. She had not hitherto paid much attention to domestic management, but judging by Lady Stanwood’s method, it was far simpler than she’d thought.

In her bedchamber she found Maria, bright-eyed with pride in her post of abigail. “Miss Emily is laid down on her bed. Her Ladyship says as how she’s to have a tray tonight. ’Tis a pity the journey made her ill.”

“I told her not to eat so much breakfast, but she would do it,” Sharlie returned. “At least it’s a good lesson, she’ll not do it again. How was your trip, Maria?”

“Very long, but in course it was all new to me, miss. Mr. Beamish told me not to gawk, but how could I help? I’d not want to miss anything. Eh, what a deal I’ll have to tell when I get home!” She smiled shyly at Charlotte, “I’m that proud to be chosen, I’m not sure if I’m on my head or my heels. You’ll forgive my chattering, miss?”

“Of course. I was just as excited on my first visit—but you must write all down before you forget, Maria. I’ll give you the materials, and we’ll send it by one of the grooms to Stanbury.”

The maid’s eyes sparkled. “Eh, that’d be main special, miss!”

“Not really. We’ve always grooms going back and forth—why shouldn’t they carry a letter?”

“No reason, I suppose, miss—except I’m only a servant.”

“You’re also a person, and your mother will want to know you are well and—I hope—happy.”

“Oh, Miss Stanwood—happy! Anyone’s happy to work for the Stanwoods!” Maria stammered pinkly, and Sharlie smiled at her—but had she known it, she had just acquired a slave! Maria’s sixteen-year-old heart was bursting with loving devotion to be called a
person
whose mother would worry. She was filled with a fierce determination to obey Miss Stanwood’s lightest wish, as she produced an evening frock. “Miss Tinsdale would have me press this for tonight, but seeing you were so delayed, I made bold to press another as well.”

Sharlie eyed the dresser’s choice of insipid pink muslin with disfavor. “Which did you choose, Maria?” When the girl held up a green dress, her thralldom was completed at Miss Stanwood’s nod. “I’ll wear that. You’ve a good eye for the color to suit me, Maria.”

“Yes, miss.” Carefully she brushed out Charlotte’s thick hair, until Sharlie chuckled and took the brush away.

“You’re too gentle, Maria! I’ve a scalp of iron beneath this horse’s mane.” Ruthlessly, she raked her hair until it lay in shining waves. In a few quick tosses, she’d pinned it into a roughly Grecian style with the ends floating free. Observing the maid’s concentration, she laughed merrily. “Don’t try to learn this! Tomorrow the coiffeur will change me completely to the modality, whatever it is this year.” Charlotte got up from the dressing table, carelessly draped a shawl about her shoulders. “I’ll peep in at Miss Emily, and you needn’t wait for me tonight, I’ll, put myself to bed. You must have a good rest in preparation for tomorrow. Good night.”

A single glance showed Emily was fast asleep. Sharlie closed the door softly and descended to the salon where her mother was frowning over a letter. “Listen to this,” she said, bewildered. “ ‘His Grace, the Duke of Imbrie, respectfully apologizes for the inconvenience caused Lady Stanwood’s coach near Melsham this afternoon.’ What d’you make of that, Sharlie?”

“Why, that he wishes to be on terms with us,” Sharlie chuckled. “I thought he would! You must know, mama, that he was quite odiously uncivil when I
took Emily
into the parlor to rest. I’d no idea it was occupied and she was feeling faint, but he ordered us out! I’m sorry, mama, but he didn’t even look the gentleman: lounging in a chair with brandy and a cigarillo. I’m afraid I gave him the rough side of my tongue, and
then
he got a sight of Emily.” Charlotte laughed aloud, describing the scene. “I had not the opportunity to tell you before, ma’am, nor did I know the name until we reached Park Street, when Thomas told me. Of course Jem-coachman spoke to the groom. And so his Grace has apologized for grazing the wheels of your coach! Famous! Who is he, mama? Do you know him?”

“More by repute than in person,” Lady Stanwood frowned with an effort for memory. “He is one of the premier dukes, but averse to Society—a widower—or am I thinking of Fanscot?”

“No, no, you must be right, mama, for he would never apologize had he not wished for a second look at Emily, which must be inadmissible were he married. I told you how it would be, ma’am. I wish we may get Emily to Almack’s once before she is bespoke!”

“I fear you are right,” her mother murmured distractedly, “but
Imbrie
... was he not the one? No, that was Tolliver—at least I am nearly sure it was Tolliver—but perhaps I am confusing him with Marley. Oh, lud, I wish your father were here to tell me how to go on.”

“Why, there’s naught so difficult, ma’am. You’ve only to send a civil reply, accepting his apology, and there’s an end to it. Shall I write for you?”

“Yes, I suppose so. One does not wish to be impolite, although from your description ... Still, the direction is Grosvenor Square, so I must have been thinking of Tolliver, for he was sold up, you know. Beamish could easily ascertain ... but one cannot inquire of servants, it gives rise to gossip.”

While her mother rambled on uncertainly, Charlotte was writing:
Lady Stanwood is most appreciative of his Grace’s note, but feels no apology is needed. She wishes, rather, to commend his Grace on his expert avoidance of accident, due to the necessary slowing of her coach.
“There—that should suffice, I think. If you approve, ma’am, I will send it at once.”

Lady Stanwood came out of her abstraction and scanned the note. “Suffice for
what?”
she inquired with faint suspicion.

“For easy relations should we meet,” Charlotte said innocently. “You know papa does not like any unnecessary difficulties with neighbors, and Grosvenor Square—it is practically next door. We may see the duke at St. George’s, or riding in the Row, and no doubt he and papa belong to the same clubs.”

“No doubt,” Lady Stanwood agreed drily, “but I question our meeting at church, and until the horses arrive, you’ll not be riding. Furthermore, an apology for grazing my coach wheels does not constitute an introduction, Charlotte.”

“No, ma’am. Shall I not send the note, then?”

Her mother read it again. “Oh—you may as well,” she said finally, “and write another to Lady Inverclyde, asking her to call tomorrow morning, or as soon as may be. Flora will know about Imbrie ... Flora always knows everything...”

At No. 10 Park Street, Lady Stanwood and her daughter dined lightly on oyster fritters, stewed neck of veal, a Davenport fowl and buttered salsify, removed with a green salad dressed in the French manner and ended with a pupton of pears accompanied by
Crème
a l’anglaise.

At No. 10 Grosvenor Square, the Duke of Imbrie dined more heartily on two thick slices from a baron of
beef, preceded by turtle soup and succeeded by boiled lamb with spinach, baked fish and roast pigeon. This was removed with an omelet, some white collops, an apple pie and a Savoy cake, accompanied by several dishes of preserved fruits and a large bowl of roasted chestnuts. His Grace was sitting over the Port, peeling a chestnut and staring moodily at the great branched candelabra, when the dining room door crashed open and a medium tenor voice said, “Devil take it, Robsey—no need to announce
me
to m’cousin. Bring another glass, someone. Julian, how are you? What do you in London?”

“I am mending my temper,” the duke grimaced, but his expression lightened as his visitor threw himself carelessly into a chair, and indeed Lord Arthur Voss was good to look upon. The family resemblance was strong, yet softer in Lord Arthur. His curls were more brown than black, his eyebrows curved correctly above twinkling sherry-colored eyes instead of the duke’s heavy slashing line of black that nearly met at the center and was satanically upthrust toward his temples. Both men possessed the handsome classic-modelled Voss nose and deep chin dimple, but Lord Arthur’s lips were slightly fuller. He seemed always to be on the verge of smiling. In fact, his was a happy nature, rated a prince of good fellows by his enormous circle of friends and described as more Corinthian than Pink of the
Ton,
although no fault could be found with his evening dress.

Conversely, the duke’s coat of wine red velvet heavily
_x
braided and slashed to permit a fall of finest Mechlin at wrists and throat was clearly of Continental design despite its excellent fit. An immense ruby nestled in the jabot; another, set in gold and carved into his personal seal, adored the duke’s right index finger. Otherwise, he wore no dangling fobs, no tassels to his knee garters, nor bows to his evening slippers, yet the austerity of his clothing served only to emphasize the air of command that was subtly combined with a reckless cynicism.

In short, the duke looked what he was: the Most Noble Julian Giles Herestone Voss, seventh Duke of Imbrie, Marquis of Herestone, Earl of Imbrie, Baron Voss of Bascombe,
and
of Keighly,
and
of Rickaby, all of which consequence had been his from the age of seven.

Lord Arthur grinned at his cousin’s morose expression. “Aunt Laura been hectoring you again?”

“When does she not? If ever a woman enjoyed ill-health with that damned long-faced parson hovering over her—and tough as an ox for whatever she
wants
to do! Not content with filling Calydon Towers with my relatives, most of whom I don’t remember and all of whom I would prefer to forget,” said the duke wrathfully, “she’d arranged a series of visits to introduce suitable females to my notice! And with this devilish weather, nothing but storms and black frosts since October, I’ve had no more than five days of hunting—I’m trapped, Arthur. I can’t even escape to my neighbors. I find there’s at least five girls who used to be in the schoolroom, and all of a sudden
they’re
being hustled forth in sprig muslin, playing the
harp
!”

“It’s your own fault for being such a desirable
parti
shrouded in all the mystery of foreign travel. If you’d stay home for a few seasons, the
ton
would soon tire of you, Julian,” his cousin chuckled.

“But not of my bank account,” the duke retorted. “Have you any idea what it’s like? If I dance twice with the same young lady, or linger in conversation for ten minutes ... escort a girl to the supper room on two successive evenings ... it is instantly seen as a distinguishing mark of attention giving rise to
expectations.
The alternative is to spread my favors evenly between a number of young ladies, but i’faith, there’s not enough to make one tolerable brain among ’em. They seem more insipid every time I go into company. Is it the fashion of today, or do I grow old, Arthur?”

“Neither! Had you stayed in England after Isabella’s death, I fancy you’d have remarried in a year. Then you could have found a wife near your age and grown up together. Now, after ten years of wandering, you are more critical. The marriage mart presents schoolgirls. You’d do better to inquire for the spinsters, Julian. The girls left on the shelf often flower handsomely in five or six years,” Lord Arthur observed wisely. “That’s if you were wanting a wife?”