What Lucinda Learned (8 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

Lucinda did not see
Mr. Devereux for the next few days. That, she told herself, was a piece of great good fortune. It was, naturally, only a desire to avoid an uncomfortable scene that made her scan the crowds for his tall languid figure. And of course it was only relief she felt when she failed to see him.

Fortunately, her cousin was much too preoccupied to take much notice of Lucinda’s moods. Mrs. Cleeson was in the final stages of refurbishing the house. A steady stream of tradesmen had visited Agincourt Circle. Lucinda had been shown endless samples of paint, cloth and wallpapers and miniatures of furniture.

Matters at Gedge’s and Chippendale’s and a dozen other establishments had all been settled. Mrs. Cleeson had driven to Mr. Wedgewood’s extensive showroom in Grosvenor Square and ordered new china.

That very morning, the last vase and mirror had been delivered. Now Lucinda stood in the window of the newly resplendent front salon. She was fidgeting with the purple tassels on the new violet draperies.

Behind her, seated beside Ivor Devereux on the equally new red morocco sofa, Mrs. Cleeson triumphantly drew a large X through her list and tucked it away in her reticule.

“Now at last I may begin a new list, one that has nothing whatever to do with refurbishing.”

“And dare I hope that you will place the matter of which we spoke near the top of any such list?” Ivor asked softly.

“Oh, hush, Ivor.” Mrs. Cleeson cast a quick glance at Lucinda. “Shall we see you at the Vernissage this afternoon?” she asked, raising her voice in exaggerated cheerfulness.

“What? At the Royal Academy? No, my dear. Not my choice at all. You keen on pictures, then?” This last was addressed to Lucinda.

She turned with a start. “I have never attended such an event, Mr. Devereux.”

“Ah, well, best to go and see for yourself, then.” Ivor stood. “I hope you enjoy the crush.”

Mrs. Cleeson rose as well and escorted him to the door. Her colour was high when she returned, but Lucinda was still staring out at the empty street.

“Mercy, child!” Ethelreda shrieked. “Don’t twist the tassel off before it’s been in the house a week.”

“Sorry, cousin.” Lucinda dropped the silk bundle but remained standing in the same listless way.

Mrs. Cleeson looked narrowly at her. “Are you sure you’re feeling quite the thing, Lucinda?”

“Yes, cousin.”

Mrs. Cleeson frowned. “You haven’t quarrelled with Will, have you?”

“Will? Of course not. He’s coming to the Royal Academy with us.”

“In that case...” Cousin Ethelreda’s voice trailed off. If it wasn’t a lovers’ quarrel that was ailing the girl, what could it be? Lucinda had been uncharacteristically on edge these past few days.

Later that afternoon, however, Mrs. Cleeson had to admit that her charge had apparently recovered! from the mopes. She seemed in merry pin as they met , Belle, Patience, Sir Charles and Lady Grantham.

In fact, Lucinda had decided she was making too much of the scene with Mr. Devereux. He was a Town beau, after all, and she, she had to admit, was a green girl. She had talked to him with too much familiarity and she had always heard that gentlemen were prone to misinterpret such forwardness. She was refining too much upon it.

So Lucinda laughed and chatted as animatedly as Belle as they drove up to the door of Somerset House. There were many other vehicles crowding the street and a throng of elegantly dressed persons milling about on the pavement.

Lucinda saw clearly what Ivor had meant about the crowd. But once they were inside the famous Great Room, the press abated not one whit.

The girls stared wide-eyed about them.
Vernissage,
Lucinda knew, meant
varnishing.
She had half expected to see artists and easels, but all the works were elaborately framed and hung.

“What a number of pictures!” Patience exclaimed.

“There are generally over five hundred works on view,” Lady Grantham told them.

“They are hung all the way up the walls.” Lucinda craned her neck towards the domed ceiling. “I can scarcely make out what the higher ones are about.”

“And there are some almost at floor level.” Belle gestured. “One would have practically to lie down to see them.”

“I recall my father telling me that Mr. Gainsborough declared that if the Committee hung his picture up there ‘in the sky,’ he would never send another to the Academy,” Sir Charles said with a chuckle.

“And did they?” Lucinda asked.

“They did and he didn’t.”

“I don’t wonder at it,” she said. “Why, I cannot tell what some of them may represent at all.”

“I can scarcely see any of them,” Patience said, looking about. “There are so many people here.”

“We must get a catalogue,” Sir Charles decided. “That will tell us what we are seeing—or not seeing.”

“A good idea, Charles,” his mother said with a nod. She turned to Mrs. Cleeson. “I see a bench over there, Ethelreda. Let us sit there while the young people walk about.”

Mrs. Cleeson consented and the two chaperons watched their charges with indulgent smiles.

“How charmingly Lucinda looks today,” Lady Grantham remarked.

“And Belle is always beautiful,” Mrs. Cleeson said with equal magnanimity. “I am so glad, too, to see Patience in her best looks.”

Lady Grantham smiled, then sighed. “I believe that Charles has developed a tendre for my goddaughter.”

“And you do not approve?”

Lady Grantham shrugged. “She is a pretty child, somewhat wild, but when one considers...” The eyes of the two chaperons met.

“Quite so.” Ethelreda nodded. “Lady Ryland’s influence is not the ideal one for a young girl. But, Amelia, would you welcome Belle as a daughter-in-law?”

“If that is what Charles wants, I shall not stand in his way. Though I should, I own, prefer him to choose a less ... well, a less volatile girl.”

“But...” Mrs. Cleeson spoke rather hesitantly. “I do not mean to suggest that Charles himself is volatile, but he does seem to enjoy...” She stopped.

“Enjoy play-acting?” His mother nodded resignedly. “He has, I’m afraid, a dramatic streak.”

“Then, you know, he might perhaps find a more placid girl actually boring.”

“You may be right, Ethelreda. But if that is the case, I wish Belle will not so deliberately provoke him by flirting with Miles Stratton.”

“Amelia! Surely she cannot be serious about that!”

“Oh, I think not,” Lady Grantham sighed for a third time. “And there is Patience.”

“I cannot think Patience could cause you any anxiety.”

“Not really, I suppose. But I wish she would show some sign of finding someone interesting. She is polite to them all and says that they are agreeable, but,” said Lady Grantham astringently, “unless I much miss my guess, she would not notice if any of them fell off the Earth and were never seen again.”

“Perhaps she has simply not yet met anyone who captures her fancy.”

“Well, of course I should not coerce her into a union she found distasteful, but I do wish she would show a little more
enthusiasm
.”

“When she finds the right gentleman,” Mrs. Cleeson said soothingly, “I’ve no doubt she shall.”

Patience’s mother snorted but left the topic. “You, Ethelreda, are fortunate in your charge. Lucinda seems to have fixed her interest on young Ryland. Even if the father’s pockets are to let, I hear nothing but good about the boy and he, so I hear, inherits the grandfather’s fortune.”

“Ye-e-es. Will is a delightful young man.”

“But you sound dubious, Ethelreda.”

“Not about Will’s character. But he and Lucinda have known each other all their lives, and I have never before suspected they cherished a tendre for each other at all.”

“Such a change in feelings is not unknown as young people grow up.”

“True.” Mrs. Cleeson shook her head. “But I have sometimes thought ... in fact, at times, I have been almost convinced that...”

But the source of Mrs. Cleeson’s conviction was never to be revealed. Two other ladies appeared and greeted them effusively. Lady Grantham and Ethelreda made room for them on the bench and no more private matters were discussed.

Meanwhile, catalogues in hand, the younger members of the party squeezed past the crowds and tried to look at the pictures. Belle and Sir Charles fell behind, giggling over some private joke of their own.

Patience was reading from the catalogue while Will listened in apparent rapture. On the whole, Lucinda thought, the crowd was more intriguing than the pictures, and certainly easier to study.

She had seen many members of the haut ton, all conversing vivaciously with one another, oblivious to the art surrounding them. As she looked over the crowd, she started a little, for not far from her, staring expressionlessly at a full-length portrait of the Prince Regent, was Lady Chloris dePoer.

The crowd parted for a moment; Chloris looked up and saw Lucinda. She smiled politely and nodded.

To her annoyance, Lucinda flushed. She began to incline her own head, but the crowd had closed between them again.
Thank heavens
, Lucinda thought, Mr. Devereux was nowhere near them. But there was still that brooch, and she had to find a way of returning it!

She looked at Will and Patience. Their heads were close together, bent over the catalogue. She glanced at the picture before them—
Fox’s Litter at Play
—and concluded that it scarcely warranted such study. First the needlepoint exhibition, and now this. She had never known Will had such a passion for art.

She risked a glance over the crowd again. She did not see Chloris again, but she did spy Lady Hoxborough, wearing one of her amazing turbans, this one set with a huge, balefully twinkling emerald. Her ladyship was talking, but Lucinda could not see to whom. The unfortunate victim was evidently not getting much of a chance to contribute to the conversation, for Lady Hoxborough’s lips never stopped.

Curiously, Lucinda stepped to one side and peered round a couple of loudly arguing gentlemen. She went hot and then cold. For a moment, she felt sheer panic and looked wildly about for an escape.

The person Lady Hoxborough was addressing was Beau Devereux. He leant one hand against the wall, his head was courteously inclined and his expression was one of total absorption.

He was not looking her way, but Lucinda immediately stepped back behind the two gentlemen. He must not see her!

Will and Patience were now both admiring a painting of London Bridge, her dark head close to his fair one. Hurriedly, Lucinda made some excuse to them and threaded her way back to the bench.

She found Mrs. Cleeson and Lady Grantham surrounded by a number of friends who welcomed her into their conversation. However, Lucinda positioned herself where she could see the exit and gave only half an ear to their chatter.

She saw Lady Hoxborough make a stately departure, but Mr. Devereux did not leave the Great Room. She could not doubt that as soon as he had been released by Lady Hoxborough, he had made directly for Prinny’s portrait and Lady Chloris.

CHAPTER NINE

If
cousin Ethelreda
had thought Lucinda improved at Somerset House, next morning she reverted to her previous misgivings. As was becoming usual, Ivor Devereux had called as early as a morning visit might reasonably be paid. He and Mrs. Cleeson broke off their tête-à-tête when Lucinda entered the front salon.

But Lucinda did not sit down and join in their conversation. Instead, she flitted about, picking up a japanned box here, a pot-pourri dish there. She rearranged the roses in a bowl on the table, straightened three pillows on the confidante, picked up and down in turn each ornament on the mantelpiece until at last Mrs. Cleeson burst out.

“I declare, Lucinda, you are as mifty as a sick cat these days. I do hope you are not sickening for something.”

“Wouldn’t say the girl was mifty,” put in Ivor. “A little pale, though. Goin’ the pace probably. Needs some good country air. Take her out to Dorking, bring the roses back to those cheeks.”

“Ivor, the very thing. What do you say, Lucinda? Are you tired of Town pleasures?”

Town had certainly seemed to lose a good deal of its appeal recently, so Lucinda was pleased by the idea of a country expedition. And, she thought wryly, she wouldn’t be likely to run into Lady Chloris in the middle of Dorking Wood.

Thus, when Mr. Richard
Devereux turned into Agincourt Circle early the next morning, his uncle’s cheery voice hailed him.

“Hi, Ricky, over here!” Ivor was standing on the! steps of the Granthams’ travelling coach. Lady Grantham was inside and Mrs. Cleeson stood on the pathway, perusing the inevitable list.

Richard greeted the two elder ladies. “Well, Ivor,” he said then, “you look poised for adventure.”

“Off to Dorking, my boy. Luncheon alfresco. Care to join us? You’d be better off for a day out of Town.”

“Yes, do come, Dev.” Sir Charles had ridden up on a big grey.

“It will be so delightful to be in the country,” Lady Grantham said, leaning out of the window. “For, you know, it is to be an excessively hot day today.”

“It is a tempting prospect,” Devereux agreed, but his eyes were on the open landau just in front, in which Lucinda, Belle and Patience made a cool and charming picture in their gauzy summer muslins. “But I am dressed neither for the country nor for riding.”

“Go and change, my boy. You’ll easily catch up with us or your stable ain’t what it used to be.”

Mr. Devereux regarded the landau. Belle smiled and waved; Patience nodded politely. Lucinda apparently did not see him, for she was gazing with deep interest at a small black-and-white dog which was investigating the gutter. Mr. Devereux smiled slightly.

“Thank you, your ladyship.” He bowed to Lady Grantham. “I shall be honoured to join you.”

Lucinda watched him leave with mixed feelings. Her heart had been unaccountably lightened when she saw him first, but when he looked towards the landau, she had been sure he meant to approach them and felt a sensation that was close to panic. Now she was conscious of strong disappointment.

“What happened to Mr. Devereux?” Belle demanded as Sir Charles rode up to them again. “Why didn’t you ask him to join us?”

“He’s going to,” Charles replied, frowning at Belle’s interest. “He’s just gone to change.”

“Mr. Devereux is always agreeable,” said Patience soothingly. “I am sure we shall all be glad to have him join us. Aren’t you, Lucinda?”

Miss Neville tried to speak casually, but her voice sounded strained, even to her own ears. “Of ...of course.”

In sudden concern Patience asked, “Are you nervous about the journey? I do not think you need be, for in general, you know, people are not sick in open carriages.”

“No, no, I’m sure I shan’t be. Look, my cousin has finally got into the coach. Now we shall be on our way.”

“That’s right,” Will agreed as he cantered up, “we’re off to Dorking!”

It was a bright, glorious morning and Belle and Patience were soon in high gig. They bantered playfully with Charles and Will. But Lucinda was mostly silent, and when Mr. Devereux galloped up on an enormous chestnut, she became entirely so.

Their destination was a pretty meadow, bordered by Dorking Wood on one side and a sparkling crystal brook on another. Soon Lady Grantham and Mrs. Cleeson, with Ivor Devereux in attendance, were installed in the shade of an ancient elm. Then the younger members of the party busied themselves in unpacking the picnic baskets.

Lucinda was uncomfortably aware of Richard Devereux. As she worked, she made quite sure that she was never beside him. At lunch, she positioned herself quickly between Belle and Mrs. Cleeson.

If Mr. Devereux noticed these elaborate manoeuvres, he kept the knowledge to himself and made no attempt to single Lucinda out. He addressed no more remarks to her than to the others and treated her with his usual impersonal courtesy.

Lucinda was not sure whether to be pleased or piqued by this treatment. However, she did relax a little. Once the repast was finished, however, all her apprehensions returned.

Lady Grantham and Mrs. Cleeson showed an inclination to drowse against the bole of their tree. Producing a fat cigar, Ivor removed himself to the far edge of the wood to smoke it.

Sir Charles invited Belle to walk in the woods, “To look for primroses,” he suggested.

If Belle was aware that the time for primroses had long since passed, she made no sign. Instead she fluttered her lashes at her eager swain. “Why, yes,” she said, “do let us explore this darling wood.”

Mr. Devereux was still lounging with a glass of wine, but Lucinda decided to forestall any plans he might have. “Come, Will,” she said brightly, standing up and holding out her hand. “I do so want to look at this delightful little brook.”

“Eh?” Will gaped at her, then seeing her still waiting, he scrambled up. “The brook? Right!” He took her arm, and with a last look backwards, went with Lucinda.

Mr. Devereux turned to Patience. “Would you care to walk also, Miss Grantham?”

Patience withdrew her gaze from Will and Lucinda. “Why yes, sir. That would be the very thing.”

He helped her up. “Which way do you prefer, then?”

Without raising her eyes, Patience said, “I think, you know, I should like to walk beside the stream. It is so pretty there.”

“An admirable choice,” said Mr. Devereux gravely. “Shall we go?” And they followed in Will and Lucinda’s wake.

“What’s all this about the stream?” the former was demanding. “I mean, it’s just a stream. Dozens of ’em in Nether Wilden and I never heard you in alt about any of ’em before.”

Instead of answering, Lucinda stole a glance behind her. She had seen Patience and Mr. Devereux rise; now they were clearly engaged in lively and amusing conversation. Will peered round too and grunted. They trudged on in gloomy silence.

Silence, however, did not mark the encounter between Belle and Sir Charles. After going a short way into the wood, they had spied a rather picturesque fallen log and had seated themselves upon it. Unfortunately, his evil angel prompted Sir Charles to reproach Belle for her friendship with Miles Stratton. Miss Ryland sat up straighter. “What! Do you mean to criticize my behaviour, sir?”

Sir Charles began to retreat. “I didn’t mean anything of the sort, Belle, don’t—”

“And just what
did
you mean?”

“Dash it all, Belle, everyone knows about Stratton: you meet him everywhere, but he ain’t good ton. You ask Dev if—”

Her eyes flashing, Belle rose. “And by that, I suppose you mean
I
am not good ton?”

“No, no, I don’t! Nothing of the kind!” Sir Charles saw his hopes of a romantic interlude slipping away. “Wouldn’t even suggest such a thing—you know I wouldn’t.”

“I don’t know anything of the sort,” Miss Ryland said grandly. “But I do know I shan’t walk with anyone who thinks I’m not good ton. I shall continue on my own.” Head high, she swept off.

“Belle! Belle, wait!” he called, but she ignored him and he sank back on the log. “Oh, damn it all! ” said Sir Charles disgustedly.

Belle’s anger carried her forward for some minutes. But there was no one to admire her performance and the path was becoming too overgrown for outraged striding, anyway. She looked expectantly behind her. Really, who would have thought Charles was such a milksop? Well, she certainly wasn’t going back to
him.

The path grew narrower and lost itself in a tangle of undergrowth. The wood was very silent, and Belle thought she had never before noticed how sinister such a place could be. Then there was a rustle by her feet.

Glancing down, Belle thought she saw a thin brown rope wriggling towards her. She shrieked loudly and fled, blundering her way through the bushes.

Ivor had just finished the end of his cigar. It had been a particularly mellow one and had capped a highly satisfactory lunch. He was now making his way back to the elm tree, a rather slow way as he knew ladies of a certain age did not like to be caught napping. And Ivor had his own reasons for keeping on the good side of at least one of these ladies.

There was a crash, then a gasping sob, and Belle hurled herself upon him. In theory, Ivor had no objection to beautiful young women throwing themselves at him, though in practice he preferred that they did not do so with their full weight. He staggered, winded.

“Snake! Snake!” screamed Belle. “Python! Viper! Cobra!”

“Cobra?” Ivor got his breath. “Don’t sound right to me—cobra in Dorking Wood.”

Belle grasped at his arm and tried to straighten herself, but her foot slipped on some moss and her ankle turned. “Ouch!” She clutched again at Ivor.

He stumbled once more. “Dash it, gel, what is it now? Another cobra?”

“No, no, my ankle.”

“Not broken it, have you?”

“I don’t think so, but it does hurt.”

“Better get you back to the chaise, then. Lean on me.”

They could see the others now. Lucinda, Will, Patience and Richard had joined forces and were sitting beneath the spreading elm: Even from halfway across the field, it was possible to see that only Miss Grantham and Mr. Devereux were taking part in any conversation.

Much as Ivor appreciated the role of chivalrous rescuer, he felt Belle’s weight even more. “Ho there!” he shouted. “Help ho!”

They came hurrying to meet him and Ivor gladly yielded Belle to her brother’s arms. The two duennas were fully awake now and took charge, sending a handkerchief to be soaked in the stream and arranging for Belle to be carefully settled in the chaise.

Dispatched to collect pillows and a rug, Lucinda watched as Patience and Richard fetched a restorative glass of wine for the invalid. They did not, she considered, viciously punching a velvet pillow, they did
not
need to stand quite so close together, or to whisper quite so much.

Sir Charles emerged from the wood and had to have the situation explained to him. His chagrin was complete when his mother, hurrying by with some sal volatile, said accusingly, “Really, Charles, could you not have taken better care of Belle?”

By common consent the excursion was felt to be over. Ivor resigned his seat in the chaise to Belle and joined the two girls in the landau. He paid them a number of bluff, jovial compliments, but when neither responded more than perfunctorily, he soon fell silent.

Dev led the cavalcade and Charles and Will rode beside the landau, but both appeared sunk in gloom. Patience’s thoughts also seemed to be less than enlivening. As Lucinda watched the golden afternoon decline, she felt that no one could describe the expedition as a success.

Certainly,
if its object had been to cheer Lucinda, it had been a distinct failure. She awoke the next day in the same crotchets. When she and Ethelreda went for a stroll along New Bond Street the next morning, she could scarcely respond patiently to the acquaintances they met, and their endless stream of chit-chat.

“Really, cousin,” she complained after the third such encounter. “I had no idea London was so full of tattle-mongers.”

“Come, Lucinda! There is no need to react like a Methodist. Naturally people are interested in each other’s doings.”

“Well, I am not.” Lucinda glared ferociously at a befrilled gown in a bow-fronted shop window. “I am not in the least concerned with whom Mr. Richard Devereux may marry.”

Mrs. Cleeson stared at her. “Are you quite well, Lucinda? Are you sure you do not have the headache or perhaps a touch of indigestion? I am not convinced those gooseberries last night were entirely ripe.”

“My digestion is perfectly sound, cousin.”

“You need not hesitate to tell me, child, for I know indigestion does tend to make one crotchety.” Lucinda ground her teeth, but Mrs. Cleeson continued, “For you know, it is quite nonsensical to say people ought not to be interested in Mr. Devereux. His impending marriage is the talk of the town. He is a Devereux, after all. And his uncle—” Mrs. Cleeson flushed “—his uncle has told me that Richard feels it is his duty to his family to marry, which is a very proper sentiment.”

Lucinda sniffed disparagingly, but Ethelreda’s attention was distracted.

“Oh, dear,” cried Mrs. Cleeson, “there is Belle with Miles Stratton. What a tiresome girl she is, to be sure.”

A vision in blue and white, with a matching parasol, Belle was coming towards them. The only evidence of her mishap of the previous day was a tiny bandage about her ankle. Miles Stratton was in assiduous attendance and Belle leant heavily upon his arm. Behind them trailed Belle’s maid, a doting smile on her broad face.