Escapade (22 page)

She remained standing. “Oh, yes, now that I have seen you ruthlessly ordering your guests about and making fun of them—us, behind our backs, I have a much truer picture of your character. And I prefer not to sit on that dreadful, hard, and very cold bench,” she added.

“Let us take a stroll then, and see if we can find a rosebush that is not totally destroyed. Strange you did not find the bench uncomfortable before my arrival, by the way,” he said, to add a little fuel to the discussion.

“I found it so uncomfortable that I was about to leave when you came. But then a man who will put stone benches in his rose garden obviously has not the comfort of his guests in mind. At Fairmont we have lovely little wicker settees."

“Which must be brought in every time rain threatens, or they squawk like a beaten dog when you sit on them,” he riposted.

“Yes, they do squawk a little,” she admitted, “but they do not cause a chill to the marrow of your bones at least."

“If you have taken a chill, Miss Fairmont, I shall personally bring you a posset, or embrocation, or whatever treatment you require,” he bowed formally. “What was recommended in that one book you read by—Doctor Ward was it?"

“He most particularly advised staying away from stone benches."

He smiled, and they walked on, but he soon remembered Strayward's imminent arrival, and the smile faded from his face.

“Is it the prospect of my taking ill that has put you in the hips so suddenly?” she rallied, “or the even more awful one of your having to quack me?"

“Neither. I know you were bamming me, of course. It's something else entirely."

“You are thrown into the dismals at the thought of your party breaking up perhaps?"

“No, it is rather the addition to my party that frightens me."

“Strayward? Is he so bad as that? He seems a harmless enough sort, from what I have seen of him about town."

“Well, he isn't coming for the fun of the drive, you know."

Ella had a pretty good idea why he was coming, but hardly felt in a position to say anything, though she did feel Clare wished to discuss it with her, which was singularly flattering.

“It is this damn ... diabolical Prattle that has put about the idea I instituted this party to choose a bride.” Ella winced, but as Clare was looking in the direction of the road, he did not observe it. “Well, I can tell you she is not the bride I have in mind."

“Have you one in mind then?” Ella asked, alarmed.

“Oh yes,” he smiled, and looked at her so oddly that she felt weak.

She hardly knew what she was saying. “Well, I think you overestimate yourself, milord. I doubt that Honor would even accept an offer now that the truth is out. That you are a
Whig
, I mean."

“Not a chance. I might be an anarchist for all she'd care."

“Upon my word, you have a good opinion of yourself, sir! Do you think anyone in the whole world would be happy to accept you, whatever your faults?"

“But what faults could possibly override my eligibility?” he asked, only half-joking, she feared. “I cannot think, offhand, of anyone who would not accept me."

“Well
I
would not! And neither would Miss Prattle,” she said, unsure whether he was joking or not, for while he was not smiling, he did not appear totally serious, either. There seemed to be some hint of playfulness about his lips.

“Would you not, Miss Fairmont?” he asked, quite struck at the possibility. “Extraordinary.” Seeing her state of uncertainty, and wishing to goad her a little further, he said, “Well, I think you would, and I make no doubt I could bring Prattle round my thumb too, if I had a mind to."

“I never heard such conceit in my life!” she expostulated, half laughing.

“Do you deem it conceit in me to think myself worthy of a common gossipmonger, who makes her livelihood purveying lies about her betters? Or is it only yourself you consider to be above my touch?"

“I didn't mean that!” she gasped, stung more by his castigation of Prattle than the latter part regarding herself.

“Then what did you mean, for that is certainly what you said."

“I—I only mean it is conceited in you to say such things openly, even if you do think them."

“I am lacking in hypocrisy, in fact. Certainly a grave deficiency in a gentleman."

“I didn't mean that either. Oh, it is horrid of you to say so. You are only trying to make me angry."

“And do you know, I think I am succeeding better than I expected. You should allow your temper to run away with you more often. The flush becomes you.” Naturally she flushed more deeply at this sudden compliment.

Into the pause that followed, a clatter of hooves was heard approaching.

“Oh, God, it's Strayward,” Clare said, in a resigned voice. “What damnable timing!” Then he suddenly smiled and said, “We shall continue this discussion on whether or not you will marry me another time. I'd better go and welcome him.” In a sardonic voice he added, “And you accused me of a lack of hypocrisy."

The color deserted Ella's cheeks, and she was left with her mouth hanging open. He could not be serious! It was all a joke, of course. Clare strode round to the front of the building, and it was Ella who went in at the east door, in a trance, her mind boggled at the conversation she had just held.

A short, pudgy gentleman of middle years descended from the elegant black traveling carriage with the Strayward crest on the panel. Strayward was even shorter than his stubby wife, but they were so seldom in each other's company that it was no inconvenience. He wore a well-cut blue jacket and faun trousers, but there was no hope of fashion with such an unfortunate physique. His face was round and his cheeks rosy.

“Clare, my boy,” he said in a hearty voice, offering his hand. “Nice to see you. Are you taking good care of my girls, heh?"

“I trust they have been tolerably amused, sir,” he replied, shaking the hand that was stretched out to him.

“Ho, amused! I should say so. Yes, indeed. That little vixen of mine, Lady Cynthia—no, or is it Honor you have here?"

“Lady Honor."

“Yes, yes, so it is, the saucy minx. She is always amused. Anything amuses her."

“It certainly takes very little to keep her entertained,” Clare agreed.

“And my lady? How does Eleanor go on?"

“Fine, sir. Will you not step in and see them?"

“I'll see you first, Clare, what? We have some arrangements to make—business arrangements."

Clare felt the noose slip a little tighter about his neck and unconsciously tugged at his cravat. “Let us not discuss politics on an empty stomach,” he replied with studied obtuseness.

“Politics? No, I didn't mean that. Never discuss politics with a Whig. They don't know anything about politics. But you ain't political, Clare. No one ever said that of you."

This was meant for a compliment, Clare assumed, and he nodded.

“No,” Strayward rattled on, linking his arm in Clare's, “I didn't mean political business.” They proceeded towards the house. Looking around the grounds, he continued, “Fine place you have here. Very fine place. Next to Strayward I cannot think of a place I like better. Blenheim is a barn of a place. I hate yellow buildings, but your place is very fine. She will like it."

There could be no misreading this hint. Clare actually felt the flesh creep on his back. He said nothing but suddenly regretted he had not rushed on and made a direct offer to Miss Fairmont.

They entered through the double portals to the hall, and Strayward said, “Shall we talk now or later?"

“What is it you wish to discuss, sir?” Clare asked, with a blank look on his face.

“Why—why business, to be sure."

“Yes, so you mentioned, but I am at a loss to know what business you refer to."

“The settlement, of course."

“Settlement of what?” Clare asked, trying earnestly to sound sincere and uninformed.

“By Jove, I must speak to Eleanor,” Strayward said, a little embarrassed and not in the least happy. “I understood you and Cynthia—thought it was all settled."

“Cynthia?” Clare asked, in no real doubt, despite Strayward's inability to distinguish between his daughters.

“T'other one then, whoever is here with Eleanor."

“Ah, Lady Honor."

“Yes, yes, that's it. Honor."

The butler had rung for a footman at the gentlemen's entrance, and he now appeared. “Would you like to go directly to your room, sir, or would you care for a glass of wine first?” Clare asked.

“I'll go up to my room. Might have a bottle sent up, if you'd be so kind."

“A pleasure. Claret, or..."

“Brandy,” Strayward said firmly. If he had come here on a fool's errand, a hundred miles out of his way, he would need more than claret to keep his temper.

“See to it,” Clare said to the footman, then to Strayward he added, “We dine at seven-thirty, sir. We are holding a ball this evening to entertain the ladies. You will not want the bother of dressing twice."

“Knee breeches,” Strayward muttered unhappily. “I daresay my man packed them.” As he hobbled up the grand staircase, he was grumbling to himself about getting decked out in a monkey suit and silk stockings, and all for nothing. Clare breathed a sigh of relief. But he knew his relief was only temporary. They wouldn't give up on him so easily.

He remembered that he had intended to look at the ballroom and went there before going upstairs to change. He looked around at the large baskets of flowers and ferns and didn't see a thing.

The guests at Clare Palace were to sit down to dinner in the great dining hall at 7:30. This evening, the dinner and ball formed the highlight of the visit, and comprised the one event to which more than a casual attention had been paid. The ladies had all kept their most elaborate gowns for this night, and it was on this occasion they felt, or at least hoped, that Clare would announce which of the ladies had won his favor. There was no real reason to believe he would do so, but by constantly talking of it among themselves, they had kept the hope alive. To be sure, he had an opportunity to see each of them alone, should he desire it; both Sherry and Belle were downstairs, rigged to the nines, by seven o'clock. When Belle could not find him, she conceived the plan of going to his office, where he spent much of his time, to ask him if he had seen the ballroom. She felt it to be an inferior sort of excuse, but such speed and cunning were necessary to evade Sherry that she had only a second and half a mind to think about it.

Clare was not in his office. He feared it was the first place Strayward would go hunting for him. He stayed abovestairs with his door bolted till twenty minutes past seven. Sherry actually exposed her body and her best peau de soie gown to the elements in an effort to find him. She ventured into the rose garden—such a romantic spot to receive an offer in—but he was not there. She took two steps beyond the crushed shell walks to the lawn beyond, but there was a spot of moisture on the grass, so she came back. Water was fatal to white satin slippers and their paste buckles. Ella and Lady Sara, the former in her good yellow gown she had worn to Almack's, the latter in deep blue crepe and diamonds, went to the saloon at 7:00 and sat conversing with the Dowager Duchess, and looking at Lady Honor, who did not say anything. Mrs. Prentiss and Mrs. Sheridan were also there, sparring with each other, and sitting aside so that they had a view of the hall, and the hunt. The Marchioness was still upstairs with her husband, trying to convince him that Clare had indeed been dangling after Honor in a most marked manner all season.

“Hunting mares’ nests,” he said, in a voice becoming plaintive from brandy and disappointment.

“No such a thing,” she maintained inaccurately. “Speak to him after dinner."

“Hadn't a notion what I was talking about."

“Pshaw, you have bungled it, Strayward. Put it to him straight. No doubt he misunderstood you."

“Thought I was talking politics. Never talk politics to a Whig. Whigs don't understand politics. They only want to spoil the farmers and workers by showering them with gold, and to give the Papists in Ireland a lot of power. Nonsense."

The Straywards did not go downstairs till 7:30. Ten minutes before that, Clare descended and met Sherry just coming in from the east door through the ballroom.

“Oh, Clare, so that's where you are,” she said, with great relief, and a sharp eye about her for Belle, who had given up her search and gone to the saloon.

“Yes, have you been looking for me?"

“I was just wondering where you were, for Mama told me you weren't in the saloon yet, and I could see Belle didn't find you in your study."

“You have tracked me down now,” he said with a wry smile at her artlessness. “I expect you wanted to give me an opportunity to admire your new gown. It is extravagantly beautiful. Worthy even of you."

“Oh, do you like it?” she beamed. “It has ten yards of material in it, and took forever to make. It was shockingly expensive, but it doesn't pay to stint on a ball gown.” She whirled around in a circle to let him view her perfection from all angles.

“Lovely,” he said. Already his senses were sated with her beauty, and he took a step towards the saloon.

“It has these spangles on the underskirt,” she pointed out, causing him to turn back to render more admiration.

“Very nice."

“And I have had these paste buckles put on my slippers. Mama ordered them from London, and we were so afraid they wouldn't arrive in time, but they did.” She stuck out a dainty slipper to be gazed at.

“Very fine indeed, Sherry. Your Mama has done you proud."

“Oh, and do you like my hair?” she pressed on. “You will notice I am wearing it in the Méduse. Mama thought it best, since you liked it before."

“Now, I think we have seen you from head to toe, have we not? You will put them all to the blush. Shall we go and join the others?"

Sherry could think of no other novelties to show him, and as he had nothing to say to her, she took his arm, and smiled blightingly at Belle as she paraded in, hanging on his arm.

For a moment, Belle's heart panicked. That proprietary smile! She had got an offer! She could not remain in doubt and immediately arose from her seat, in the middle of a conversation with the Duchess, and hastened to Sherry and Clare.