Frederica (14 page)

“Have you no male relatives? I think you spoke of some guardian, or trustee—a lawyer, isn’t he?”

“Oh, Mr Salcombe! Yes, indeed, he has been most helpful and kind, but he’s not a guardian. Papa didn’t appoint one, you see. We were in dread that the younger ones might be made Wards in Chancery, but Mr Salcombe contrived to avert
that
danger. I’ve heard people complain that lawyers are shockingly dilatory, but for my part I am excessively thankful for it! He kept on writing letters, and arguing about legal points, until Harry came of age, and could assume responsibility for the children. You would have supposed that he must have wished us all at Jericho, for it went on for months, but he seemed to enjoy it!”

“I don’t doubt it! He appears to have your interests at heart: doesn’t he keep a hand on the reins?”

“Manage the boys, do you mean? No: he is not—he is not the sort of person who understands boys. He is a bachelor, and very precise and oldfashioned. The boys call him Old Prosy, which is odiously ungrateful of them, but—well, you see?” He smiled. “Most clearly!”

“And the only male relative we have is my Aunt Scrabster’s husband. I am only slightly acquainted with him, but I know he wouldn’t be of the least use. He is a very respectable man, but he’s town-bred, and all his interest is in commerce.”

“Unfortunate—but I daresay your brother Harry will relieve you of your care,” he said lightly.

There was an infinitesimal pause before she answered: “Yes, of course.”

The carriage was drawing up, and a moment later it came to a. halt in front of Lady Buxted’s house. He was glad of it. He had missed neither Frederica’s hesitation nor the note of constraint in her voice, and he had thought that it would not be long before she demanded his advice, and even his active help, in the task of guiding her young brothers. She was quite capable of it; and while he was just as capable of withering any such attempt with one of his ruthless set-downs he did not much wish to do this. He liked her. She was unusual, and therefore diverting; she was not a beauty, but she had a good deal of countenance, and an air of breeding which pleased him; and her sister was a ravishing diamond whom he was perfectly willing to sponsor into the ton. There would be flutters in more dovecots than the one he was about to enter, and that would provide him with some entertainment.

Lady Buxted was at home, and in the drawing-room, her two elder daughters bearing her company. When the visitors were announced, she rose in her stateliest way, and rather deliberately set aside the tambour-frame which held her embroidery before moving forward to meet Frederica. She favoured her with a hard stare, two-fingers, and a cold how-do-you-do. Frederica showed no signs of discomposure. She just touched the fingers (as Alverstoke noted with approval), dropping a slight curtsy as she did so, and saying, with her frank smile: “How do you do, ma’am? Cousin Alverstoke has been so obliging as to bring me to call on you, which I have been anxious to do—to thank you for your kindness, in being willing to lend us your countenance! My sister would have come with me, but she is laid up with a feverish cold, and begs me to offer her apologies.”

Lady Buxted thawed a little. She had by this time taken
in
every detail of Frederica’s appearance; and the harrowing suspicion that Miss Merriville would prove to be one of those ripe and dashing beauties to whom Alverstoke was so regrettably attracted, vanished. Having realized that Frederica was neither a beauty nor in the first bloom of her youth, her ladyship was able to regard her with an impartial eye, and even to do justice to her. She would have nothing to blush for in her protégée: the girl had pretty manners, a certain air of breeding; and she was dressed with neatness and propriety. So it was quite graciously that her ladyship told her daughters that they must come and be made known to their cousin; and while the three young ladies made rather laborious conversation she drew Alverstoke a little apart, saying that Frederica seemed a well-behaved girl, and that she would do her best for her. “I do not, however, engage to find a husband for her,” she warned him. “With no fortune, and no extraordinary degree of beauty, she cannot expect to make more than a respectable marriage, you know. If she hopes to find a husband by moving in the first circles, she is flying too high.”

“Oh, I shan’t ask that of you!” responded Alverstoke. “You will have enough to do finding a husband for Jane, I daresay.”

Only the reflection that the bills for Jane’s finery had already reached considerable proportions made it possible for Lady Buxted to keep her tongue between her teeth. But however uncertain might be her temper, her passion for funding her money was unwavering. She certainly cast her brother an angry glance, but said nothing, merely walking away from him to seat herself on the sofa, where she invited Frederica to join her.

The visit lasted for only half-an-hour; and although Lady Buxted asked Frederica a great many questions she maintained her formal manner, offered no refreshment, and made no effort to detain her when she rose to take her leave. Nor did she invite her to bring Charis to Grosvenor Place; but she did say that she must try to find time to call on Miss Winsham one day. Frederica, who answered her questions with cool reserve, detecting in them more curiosity than kindness, said, with a smile on her lips and a dangerous sparkle in her eyes, that this intelligence would cast her aunt into transports of delight; whereupon Alverstoke chuckled, and murmured: “Served with your own sauce, Louisa!”

He then bowed with exaggerated civility, and followed Frederica out of the room, leaving his sister and his nieces to marvel at his interest in a commonplace female (for girl no one could call her!) who had too much self-consequence, and was plainly above herself.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Frederica confessed, when Alverstoke took his place beside her in the carriage.

“Oh, why not? You took the wind out of her eye very prettily!”

“It wasn’t pretty of me to have done it, because she
is
going to introduce Charis to society—and I’m persuaded she doesn’t wish to do so!” Frederica turned her head to direct one of her disconcerting looks at him. “Did you—did you compel her, sir?”

“How should I be able to do that?” he countered.

“I don’t know, but I fancy you
could.
And I don’t think it was out of good-nature, or a wish to please you, because—”

“You are mistaken,” he interrupted, a sardonic curl to his mouth. “She has a very earnest desire to please me.”

She continued to look searchingly at him, and said, after a moment or two: “Well, I don’t like it! And
she
won’t like it when she sees Charis! No mother would, who had such a plain-faced daughter to present as Jane!”

“Are you going to cry off, then?”

She thought this over, saying presently, in a resolute tone: “No; if it were for myself, I would, but I’m determined Charis shall have her chance. I beg your pardon for not speaking more respectfully about your sister, but the prying questions she asked me put me all on end! I won’t say any more.”

“Don’t refrain on my account! There’s no love lost between us.”

“
None
?”
she asked, wide-eyed.

“Not a particle! Tell me, fair cousin: is the waltz danced in the wilds of Herefordshire?”

“In some houses it is, but not very much, and there are never any quadrilles. So I have hired a dancing-master to come to teach us the steps—that we shan’t disgrace you by appearing as country cousins.”

“That
does
relieve my mind!”

“It might well—except that I fancy you don’t care a straw how we may appear.”

“On the contrary! Think how much my credit would suffer!”

She laughed, but shook her head. “You don’t care for that either. Or—or for anything, perhaps.”

He was momentarily taken aback by this, but he replied without perceptible hesitation: “Not profoundly.”

She frowned, turning it over in her mind. “Well, I can understand that that must be very comfortable, for if you don’t care for anybody or anything you can’t be cast into dejection, or become sick with apprehension, or even get into high fidgets. On the other hand, I shouldn’t think you could ever be
aux anges
either. It wouldn’t do for me: it would be too flat!” She turned her head to survey him again, and suddenly smiled. “I daresay that is why you are so bored!”

“I am frequently bored,” he acknowledged. “Nevertheless, I—er—contrive to keep myself tolerably well amused!”

“Oh, yes, but
that’s
not—” She stopped, and her colour rose. “I beg your pardon! I wish I could learn to keep my tongue!”

He ignored this, saying, with a wry smile: “You do hold me in contempt, don’t you, Frederica?”

“No, no!” she said quickly. “You choose to call me a green girl, but I
have
cut my eye-teeth, you know, and I’m not wholly paper-skulled! How could you help but become bored when you have been able to command every—every agreeable luxury all your life? I expect, too,” she added wisely, “that you were very much indulged, being your parents’ only son.”

Remembering the cold formality of his father, and, with more difficulty, the brief glimpses which had been granted to him of his fashionable mother, who had died while he was still at school, the sardonic curl to his mouth became more pronounced; but all he said was: “Very true! I came into the world hosed and shod, and was so precious to my parents that a special establishment was created for me. Until I went to Harrow, I enjoyed the undivided attention of nurses, valets, grooms, tutors, and—oh, all that money could provide!”

“Oh,
poor
little boy!” she exclaimed involuntarily.

“By no means! I don’t recall that I ever expressed a wish that wasn’t instantly gratified.”

She checked herself on the brink of impetuous speech, and said, after a tiny pause, and in a rallying tone: “Well! I am now most truly obliged to you, cousin! You have taught me what poor Mr Ansdell never could!”

“Have I indeed? What’s that?”

“Not to hanker after riches, of course! I was used to think, you know, that to be born to rank, fortune, and consequence must be so very pleasant; but I see now that it’s nothing but a dead bore!” The carriage was drawing up; she held out her hand, a sparkle of mischief in her eyes. “Good-bye! Thank you for my lesson, and for introducing me to your sister! I had meant to have thanked you for coming to my rescue, but I shan’t do so, because I am now persuaded that it did you a great deal of good to be obliged to exert yourself.”

He took her hand, but only to place it firmly in her lap again. “Too previous, cousin! Spoilt though I am, I mean to exert myself sufficiently to escort you to your door.”

“You have such distinguished manners, my lord!” she murmured demurely.

“I have, haven’t I?” he retorted. “Another lesson for you—you brass-faced little gypsy!”

She burst out laughing; but when she gave him her hand again, on the doorstep, she said, looking up into his face: “Did I offend you? No, I don’t think so. I
am
grateful to you for having come so splendidly to my rescue, and very sorry to have embroiled you in such a troublesome affair.”

“Since it is well-known that my distinguished manners crumble at a touch, I shall make no apology for telling you that you are a baggage, Frederica!”

Her laughter bubbled up again; he smiled slightly; flicked her cheek with one careless finger; and trod down the steps to his carriage, under the disapproving stare of Buddle, who was holding open the door for his young mistress, and took it upon himself to reprove her for not keeping a proper distance. It was of no use to point out to him that the Marquis was almost old enough to have been her father; and worse than useless to try and snub him; devoted retainers who (as they never hesitate to remind one) had known one from the cradle, were impossible to snub. “Now, that’s quite enough, Miss Frederica!” said Buddle severely. “I’m only telling you for your own good, and I should be failing in my duty if I didn’t. Over and over again I’ve told you that you can’t carry on in London like you do at home. A nice thing it would be if people was to take you for a rackety gadabout!”

The Marquis, meanwhile, was being driven back to Berkeley Square. It was his intention to try out his latest acquisition, a team of high-bred grays, warranted by their late owner to be sweet-goers, and enviously described by the gentleman who had been outbidden by his lordship as four very tidy ones indeed. This agreeable scheme had been disturbed by the arrival of Frederica, but the day was not too far advanced for a drive to Richmond, or to Wimbledon. Alighting from his carriage in Berkeley Square, he gave the order for his perch-phaeton to be brought round immediately, and entered the house, to be greeted by joyful yelps and a storm of mingled barks and whines. Lufra, tethered to the lowest banister, recognized the one surviving link with his mistress, and hailed him as his deliverer.

VIII

Since the Marquis was quite unable to make his voice heard above Lufra’s, he was obliged to reassure and to quell the faithful hound before demanding an explanation from his butler. While Lufra, released from bondage, fawned at his feet, whimpering with mingled relief and entreaty, and dulling the glossy surface of his Hessians in a way that would have smitten his lordship’s valet to the soul, he said, in a voice that was none the less terrible for its languor: “I thought I gave orders that this dog was to be taken to Upper Wimpole Street?”