A Christmas Conspiracy (7 page)

How, she wondered with a sigh, had Eugenia and Octavia contrived to maintain their high spirits and inventive connivings? It was certainly a puzzle. Both their father and the mistresses of the various boarding schools which they had been invited to depart must have evinced a dampening spirit of control. Did her blood truly run so strong in them that the repressive surroundings in which they had been reared were as nothing?

If only she might have them with her in London, she sighed. What times they would have! Why, Almack’s would never recover!

It had given her quite a start last night to see how much the girls resembled her. They had been laughing at their father. Indeed, he
had
made quite a sight as he stood in his night-clothes attempting to hold the writhing Flops, while at the same time maintaining a stern demeanor. She, too, had used to laugh at him thus, in a time when she could still tease him out of a too serious mood.

Her smile faded and she studied the snowy grounds stretching out below her window. Her memories lay as frozen and dormant as the flowers sleeping beneath this field of snow. Few could have guessed it from her ordinarily gay demeanor, but, like an interminable, dismal winter, the chill of the past had overlain her soul. She had been resigned to it until last night, but now her spirit cried out: Could there not be a thaw in this winter of the heart?

What, she wondered distractedly, did Giles’ brief visitation to her chamber last night betoken? Could there be some hope for them? Surely he did not come merely to stare her out of countenance and then insult her. Ah, Giles! It was ever his custom to say everything but what he meant!

“Good morning, my lady.”

Fanny turned away from the icy scene before her to see that Sally stood tentatively in the doorway.

“Come in, Sally,” she said with forced brightness. “As you see, I am an early riser.”

“Your trunks arrived after you retired last night, my lady, but if you had rather wait before I unpack them, I can bring you some chocolate.”

“It is by far too early for choices, Sally,” Fanny exclaimed. “You had best send up my trunks
and
a pot of chocolate.”

“Trunks and chocolate it will be then, my lady. And . . .” She paused a moment, her eyes growing round as sovereigns as she regarded the bloom Lady Fanny still held, then asked, “Shall I fetch you a vase?”

“Yes, I daresay you should,” Fanny agreed as she glanced down at the orchid, a smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. “Only, unless you wish to attend me in the dungeon, I wish you will not let Sir Giles know of this.”

“I would not dream of it, my lady,” the maid said demurely.

“My eternal gratitude, Sally.”

“Also, Cook was wondering if you would be wanting to meet with her about the menus?”

“Preparations for the holiday are already begun, are they not?”

“Why, yes indeed, but she . . .”

“Is it still Mrs. Partridge?”

Sally nodded.

“How lovely! Then please tell her I send my compliments, but she must not worry herself over my visit. I am sure everything is just as it should be.”

“Very well, my lady. But I feel duty bound to tell you, the holiday menus were approved by your daughters.”

“Ah! I see ... I collect a preponderance of sweetmeats and comfits must comprise the greater parts of the courses?”

“So I understand.”

Fanny shrugged. “Christmas comes but once a year.”

* * * *

In a very few minutes, Fanny saw her trunks delivered and was able to partake in a cup of morning chocolate while Sally busied herself with the unpacking. Flops had not yet stirred himself. He had opened one speculative eye when Sally entered with the tray but, as it did not contain anything like a crumpet or cake, he soon returned to his slumbers. When a light rap came at the door, therefore, he did not so much as lift his head.

Fanny’s heart fluttered at the notion that it might be Giles, but was still touched to see her daughters peep in at her. She was also more than a little curious to watch their machinations commence. They entered the chamber shyly, but their apparent diffidence was underlain by such an unholy sparkle in their eyes, Fanny was hard pressed to keep from laughing aloud and begging to be made a part of their secret. How good it was to feel laughter bubble up from her heart again! She could almost sense it washing away the layers of protective cynicism with which she had varnished that vital organ.

“Good morning, Mama,” they said together, curtseying as they did so.

“Good morning, Octavia,” she said nodding at one. Then she smiled at the other, “Good morning, Eugenia.”

The twins exchanged an expression of sheer amazement.

“Why, you know which of us is which!” Genie gasped.

“I am, after all, your mama!” Fanny reminded them. “It would be a shocking thing indeed if I should not!”

“But I do not think even Father knows for certain,” Tavie protested. “He is forever calling me or Genie ‘my dear’ or some other such substitute for our names.”

“Fathers,” Fanny told them with elegant simplicity, “are not mothers.”

The girls nodded their heads in worldly-wise agreement with this self-evident bit of wisdom.

“Now, come sit here by the fire with me,” she said, indicating a pair of chairs, “and we shall have ourselves a coze.”

“We are so happy to have you home at last, Mama,” Tavie began, “but we were wondering . . .”

Fanny smiled, knowing full well she must play the innocent in this game of theirs. “Ah! You must be wondering
why
I am come home, all of a sudden,” she said ingenuously.

“Why, no,” Tavie objected bluntly. “It is merely that...” As her voice trailed off, she darted a beseeching glance at her sister.

“That is to say . . .” Genie hesitated, twisting the edge of her handkerchief. Emboldened by the sight of her mama’s noxious flannel gown, however, she went on dauntlessly. “We wondered if perhaps you might require some, er, guidance in choosing your ensemble today.”

“Yes,” Tavie continued, relieved that the entree to this delicate subject had been made. “We can see that you must have lived . . . quite retired . . . and may not be up to snuff in such matters. We know you should like to look . . . presentable.”

Fanny was forced to draw on her quickly dissolving store of self-control in order to maintain the serenity of her countenance. She had just spent the last half hour listening to Sally exclaim at the elegant trappings she was unpacking. Indeed, Fanny reflected, there was no doubt whatever that her wardrobe was the envy of half the women in society—and its emulation, their despair. With an innocent smile intended to discomfit them a bit, however, she merely said, “Indeed?”

“Why, yes,” Genie quavered, her cheeks flushing scarlet, “but be assured we are quite up to date on such matters, for we were at school with a number of young ladies whose mamas frequented both Bath and Sadler’s Wells. One of them even had a maiden aunt who lived in Brighton!”

“Sadler’s Wells? How . . . heartening,” Fanny managed. “Why it is altogether clear, then, you are the very ones to instruct me.”

At this encouragement, the twins launched into detailed descriptions of such finery as had come in (and out!) of fashion in the last two years. Fanny listened imperturbably to their recommendations as to line and color, as well as their none-too-subtle suggestion that a rouge pot might be employed to good effect.

“Now,” Genie concluded, “we must set about furbishing up your wardrobe as best we can. What a shocking thing it is that we are such deplorable needlewomen, Mama, but it is a sorry truth. Somehow, we contrive to make a great muddle of everything we set our hands to, and end by pricking our fingers grievously, but I daresay Sally might—”

“I imagine I can save us all a good deal of distress,” Fanny interrupted. The twins exchanged a worried glance.

“I am well aware,” she continued, attempting to keep the irony from her voice, “that my attire is not ... er ... what you have been used to expect here. I did not wish to distress you with my dowdiness, for I suspected that you would be quite up to the nines, my dears. With that in mind, I petitioned my good friend, Lady Madden, to fit me out for this journey. She has quite exquisite taste, as you will see. Now, as to the rouge pot—”

“Do not say you have not got one!” Genie exclaimed.

“Not got one!” their mother equivocated. She did not, but, now she was having such fun, it seemed a shame to admit that her pallor resulted more from the combination of having been thoroughly chilled the night before and not sleeping at all well. “In an hour’s time,” she assured them, “you will not know me.”

The twins looked at each other doubtfully, but said no more on the matter. Instead, as they hurried on to yet another topic, Fanny could almost see them ticking items off their list of ways to “Thwart Miss Walleye.”

“We wanted also to talk to you about the Christmas masque,” Genie began.

So she was correct.
Masque
had quite definitely been on that list, she remembered.

“Yes?” she prompted. “A masque?”

“It is quite a tradition here, as you must remember. In the past, Tavie and I have played parts in it along with the servants, but this year . . .” Genie looked at her sister.

“As
you
are come home . . .”

“And
as it would be great fun . . .”

“We wondered if perhaps you and Father would not play the roles.”

Intrigued, Fanny asked, “What is the nature of the masque to be?”

“Oh, do not worry, Mama,” Tavie assured her. “Genie and I shall write something for the two of you to perform. Now all we must do is ask Father.”

This was altogether too good to miss, Fanny decided, although the notion of the twins continuing in any literary endeavor sent a cold chill up her spine. “Perhaps,” she said with a slight smile, “I shall ask him for you.”

And perhaps, she added mentally, she might endeavor to discover more about this Miss Walleye.

Chapter Eight

Under the twins’ tutelage, Fanny dressed with such untoward elegance as she knew could not fail to raise eyebrows among her own set were they to see her thus clad before evening. Having rejected several quite appropriate morning gowns as antediluvian, her daughters settled at last on a claret velvet with a shockingly low décolletage.

“Now,” Genie proclaimed, “you look very much the thing, Mama!”

Tavie also smiled with glowing approval, commenting speculatively, “I know most young ladies make their come outs in white, but do you not think, Mama, we would look splendid in something more along these lines?”

Fanny maintained her countenance with an effort. “To be sure, you would, my dears, but I am afraid the patronesses would never approve. Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, you must know, is a dreary old quiz. You do wish to gain vouchers to Almack’s, do you not?”

Genie looked troubled. “But, Mama! Miss Fortescue vowed we should never be approved.”

“She declared the Thames would freeze solid before such hoydens as we were admitted,” Tavie continued in aggrieved tones.

“Perhaps it may not come to that,” their mother smiled. “I am old friends with Sally Jersey, and, barring claret velvet gowns, I believe arrangements can be made. Now, who is this Miss Fortescue?”

“An ogress!” Genie cried uncharitably.

“Ah!” Fanny nodded knowingly. “A governess, I take it.”

“Our last,” Tavie sniffed. “But now it is even worse, for we must have this dreadful Miss Walleye to direct our lives.”

At the mention of this name, Fanny leaned forward with redoubled interest.

“Indeed,” Genie seconded, “I do not know what Father can have been thinking of. It is true we wagered with the stable boys, but it was all in fun.”

“One would think,” Tavie grumbled petulantly, “gambling was tantamount to capital crime. His face turned quite ashen with rage. Now he says he must set a musty, mouldy paragon on us to counteract our bad blood.”

“I believe I see,” Fanny said quietly, attempting to quell the tremor in her voice.

Genie and Tavie looked suddenly stricken.

“Oh, Mama!” Tavie cried, throwing herself at her parent’s knees. “We ought not to have said that at all!”

“To be sure,” Genie declared as she joined her sister in this supplicating position. “I do not believe you can be held to account for your bad blood any more than we!”

“Pish!” Fanny drew them to her and took several deep breaths before continuing in what she hoped was a composed manner. “You are granddaughters of an earl,” she told them firmly, “and spring from an ancient and noble family. ‘Bad blood,’ as your father terms it, has nothing at all to do with you. As for his remarks about wagers, all you must know is he once taxed me with having made a bad one. He has difficulty forgetting what he perceives to be past wrongs.”

As the girls nodded vigorously at the veracity of this determination, Fanny swallowed the shame and anger she felt erupting in her breast. Granted, considering the scene he had interrupted all those years ago, Giles had had reason enough to suspect her of more than a flirtation with Quentin Willoughby. However, if he had truly loved her, he would have listened to her explanations.

“Now, run along,” she told them with forced cheerfulness. “I am certain you have much to do.”

After the girls had humbly begged their mama’s pardon once more, they kissed her shyly and departed quietly. When they had done so, Fanny arranged her golden curls under a scant bit of lace that served as a cap and made her way down the stairs to the breakfast parlor. There, she discovered Giles, all by himself, absently pushing his food about his plate.

She did not immediately address him, but stood a few moments in silent observation. This room had been hung with greenery, as well as the rest of the house, but her husband’s troubled countenance seemed more a reflection of the chilling, crystalline picture beyond the window than the seasonal cheer within. She had known, to be sure, her sudden arrival would discomfit, perhaps even offend, him. She had not anticipated, however, he would be cast into the blue devils by it.

She realized with a sudden tremor, though, as she stood silently in the doorway, that her return to her former home had cast her down as well. And the reason? she asked herself rhetorically. Why, of course, because she still must love him so. Seeing him again had given lie to her former protestations that she got on quite nicely without him. When all was said and done, her life was naught but an empty shell. For all its apparent gaiety, it was no more than a stage role she assumed whenever an audience appeared. When the curtain came down at the end of the day, she lay in the dark, alone. The girls had been more right than they knew: without the mask of her London life, she was nothing but a dismal creature, without light or hope.