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BOOK: Jane Ashford
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“I suppose Mr. Redmon had an engagement and was too polite to tell us so,” suggested Laura.

“I would hardly call his behavior ‘too polite,’” answered her sister with a sniff. “It was quite the opposite, in fact.”

“But…” began Laura.

“Oh let us dispense with Mr. Redmon,” snapped Clarissa, and picking up her skirts, she hurried into the house.

Eleven

With Eliot out of town and Clarissa indulging in something very like a fit of sulks, Laura found the next few days a little flat and began to anticipate her drive with Mr. Allenby with more eagerness than she had expected to feel. Clarissa was going shopping with Anne Rundgate that Tuesday, and she had left the house by the time Mr. Allenby’s phaeton pulled up before the door. No one but Mr. Dunham saw Laura go out and be helped into the vehicle or watched Mr. Allenby climb up beside her and take the ribbons.

At first Laura felt slightly uneasy. It was somehow a very different thing to vow independence than actually to carry it through. She was now defying her husband and doing something she herself knew to be imprudent, and she was not even sure she would enjoy it. Seated beside Mr. Allenby and riding through the streets of the West End, she felt the rebellion that had filled her begin to waver.

“Shall we simply tool about the park?” asked Mr. Allenby as they started off. “There will be a crowd there at this time of day.”

Laura had a sudden vision of that crowd, all with shocked looks on their faces at the sight of Laura Crenshaw riding beside her husband’s rival. “No,” she replied quickly, “let us go somewhere else.”

Mr. Allenby raised his eyebrows and smiled, but he said only, “Very well. What do you say to a look-in at Kew Gardens? The flowers should be well along now.”

Laura nodded. They drove for a while in silence, the girl nervously pleating between her fingers the fringes of her paisley shawl. She had dressed carefully for this outing in a gown of blue muslin with a high neck and long sleeves. The curled plumes on her chip straw bonnet exactly matched it, and a buff parasol with a clear amber handle leaned against her knee. But though she knew she looked well, she could not relax.

“A lovely day,” offered Mr. Allenby when he had guided his team through the busier streets near the park and was easing them into a trot.

“Yes,” said Laura. She looked about her. The sun was shining, new leaves were coming out on a row of trees along the pavement, and crocuses and daffodils filled the window-boxes of several houses nearby. She took a deep breath of the fresh spring air and shook her head. It was too beautiful a day to waste in useless repinings. She turned toward Mr. Allenby. “I have not yet seen Kew Gardens. Are they very lovely?”

“Oh yes,” answered her companion carelessly, “though I fear I am not a devotee of nature and the pastoral scene. I shan’t be able to name every weed and bloom for you and tell you its history.”

Laura laughed. “Good heavens. Could anyone?”

Mr. Allenby’s eyes twinkled. “Indeed. Some of our young sprigs are positively flower mad. They can recount the lineage and habits of scores of them, tell you the Latin and Greek names, and compose a sonnet on the spot featuring that particular blossom.”

She shook her head. “You almost make me wish to hear them.”

“Easily arranged. I could find you a round dozen in any drawing room.”

Laura laughingly denied any such desire.

“Ah. Too bad. Shall I tell you, then, that you are looking exceedingly lovely today?” He cast a sidewise glance at her profile. “No, perhaps not. Well shall we discuss more serious matters? The progress of the elections, perhaps, or the King’s health?”

“How ridiculous you are.”

“Ah. No politics,” he mused, then said, “Now I have it. I shall tell you tales of your husband as a grubby schoolboy. They say ladies never can resist stories of their spouses when young.”

Laura shifted uneasily. The mention of Eliot brought back her doubts, and Mr. Allenby’s tone only added to her discomfort. The man had an odd, careless way of talking. A constant undercurrent in his speech seemed to suggest that nothing he said was really important to him, or indeed of any importance whatsoever. He seemed to laugh at everything, especially himself.

“Shall I tell you about the time Eliot was caned for putting jam in the prefect’s bed?” continued Mr. Allenby. “Or about our escape to the village one Saturday and the dissipations we enjoyed? We got another whipping for that, but we didn’t care a rap, I can tell you.”

Laura smiled. “What of your studies?”

“Alas. For my part I learned almost nothing. Eliot was a better scholar, though I doubt that even he could compose a Latin epigram for you now.”

“Well I shouldn’t understand it if he could. So it doesn’t matter.”

Mr. Allenby shook his head. “You are a difficult woman to amuse, Mrs. Crenshaw. I cannot seem to hit upon a topic. But here we are.” He swung the carriage into the gardens. “Perhaps we will talk of flowers, after all.”

Laura looked down, abashed.

Mr. Allenby pointed with his whip. “There, I believe, are hyacinths and daffodils, but I fear my knowledge does not encompass any other of these plants.”

“That is a lovely willow,” answered Laura. She strove to appear more at ease as they drove about the gardens and talked of the people she had met in London and the things she had seen. Mr. Allenby had very amusing opinions of some of the former. They had turned back and were heading toward town once more when he suddenly said, “You have not mentioned the masquerade. You have been to the play and to Vauxhall, and you will go to Almack’s soon, you say, but have you seen one of the London masquerades?”

Laura signified that she had not.

“Ah, but you must.”

“What are they?”

“They are great balls where everyone wears fancy dress or dominos and masks. They are vastly amusing. No one is known, you see, though one can often recognize one’s friends.”

“I have never heard of them.”

“Infamous. You must allow me to escort you to the Pantheon then. Next week perhaps? I shall get up a party; we will have a splendid time.”

Laura was taken aback. She had gone out with Mr. Allenby once, but had not thought further than that. Now, she was uncertain how to refuse his invitation. “I am not certain, I believe I have engagements for next week.”

“Oh no,” he cried gaily. “You must cancel them. Stuffy parties cannot compare with the Pantheon Masquerade, I promise you.”

This remark made Laura even less inclined to accept. If Mr. Allenby thought the masquerades less stuffy, what must they be like? “I do not think…” she began but he interrupted. “Do not decide now. Think it over. You may tell me anytime this week.”

“Well, but I…”

“No, no, I will not accept your answer now.”

They were coming into busier streets again, and Mr. Allenby’s attention was claimed at that moment by a cart before them. It took some time to maneuver around it with the press of pedestrians in the gap. Laura did not distract him with further objections. She could send a note of refusal, she thought. Indeed it would be easier. So when Mr. Allenby’s attention was again turned to her, she allowed him to divert their talk into other channels.

***

Clarissa returned about teatime, seemingly in a more cheerful frame of mind, and the sisters had tea together in the drawing room. When asked about her shopping expedition, Clarissa obligingly detailed her purchases: two pairs of gloves, some silk stockings, and a branch of artificial flowers she thought would look well with her ball gown. She did not ask Laura what she had been doing, for which the older girl was grateful, but instead added, “And I received a note from Mr. Redmon when I returned. He apologized for his haste the other day. You were right; he did have a pressing engagement.”

Laura nodded.

“You know, it is the oddest thing, Laura,” continued her sister, “but no one seems to be acquainted with Mr. Redmon. I have asked Anne and several others, but they have not met him. Jane Sandridge thought I meant some marquess; only fancy, there is a Marquess Redmon also. I suppose it must be the name of a town. But the thing is, you do not think… that is, I begin to wonder whether Mr. Redmon…” She looked at Laura helplessly.

Laura raised her eyebrows. “You are beginning to wonder whether he is an eligible party?”

“No! Of course I do not. What an old cattish thing to say.” She noted her sister’s expression. “Oh. You are roasting me. But I am perfectly serious, I promise you. I have begun to wonder whether Mr. Redmon may not be run off his legs.” She grinned. “That means out of money.”

“Does it?” replied Laura blandly, refusing to rise to this challenge.

“Yes, and I have been thinking. Perhaps Mr. Redmon cannot afford to join in all the festivities of the season. I believe it is very expensive to hire lodgings and so on.” She looked down ruefully at her modish gown. “I never had considered it properly before. But I believe Mr. Redmon comes from a country family only moderately well off. Perhaps he is feeling pinched and… well, embarrassed. He might, don’t you think? And so he would keep to himself and not mingle with members of the
ton
.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Laura. “Or there may be some other explanation. Perhaps he simply doesn’t care for society.” Under Clarissa’s anxious gaze, she was finding the deception she had agreed to more difficult than she had expected.

“Yes,” answered her sister slowly. “That is true too.” She considered this for a moment. “It is hard to know what to think. I have not seen him since that day we met in the street, you know.” She sounded wistful. “I have looked for him everywhere.” She looked into Laura’s eyes. “Tell me, do you like him, Laura?”

The older girl hesitated. “Yes,” she replied cautiously. “He seems a very estimable man.”

Clarissa smiled beatifically. “I think he is wonderful.”

Laura looked at her. She could not quite understand her lively sister’s fascination with such a quiet young man. “But do you not find him just a little, well, not solemn precisely, but…”

“Oh I know what you mean,” answered Clarissa quickly. “He does not have the liveliness of some town beaux… but Laura, he is so kind, and there is something in his eyes. I cannot explain it to you, but he makes me feel as if I need never worry about anything again.” She flushed a bit. “I sound like a regular ninnyhammer, don’t I?”

“No,” said Laura. “But you do appear quite bowled over, by a man you scarcely know. You will become better acquainted with him, I hope, before you make a final judgment.”

Clarissa made an impatient gesture. “I know the important things already.”

Laura frowned. “But Clarissa…”

Her sister rose restlessly. “This is silly. We are talking as if there were something to be decided, and it is no such thing. I am going upstairs to write letters.” And before Laura could reply, she was gone.

She was just about to rise and go after her sister when Mr. Dunham entered the room and announced that Lady Quale was below. “She is most wishful to see you, ma’am,” he added.

Grimacing, Laura started to tell him that she was not at home to visitors, but she remembered that she had said this the last time Lady Quale called. She could not deny herself every time the woman came. Sighing, she stood. “Ask Lady Quale to come up,” she said.

***

“My dear Laura,” said the older woman when she swept into the drawing room. “I’m so pleased to find you alone. I heard a most disturbing story at Mrs. Dillingham’s this morning.”

Laura’s heart sank, but she schooled her face to polite indifference and said, “Really, what was that?”

“They are saying, my dear, that you went out driving with Jack Allenby this morning. I told Clara Dillingham that it was all nonsense.” Lady Quale’s eyes gleamed avidly as she waited for the girl’s reply.

Laura raised her chin. “As a matter of fact,” she answered, with all the dignity she could muster, “it is true. I was out driving with Mr. Allenby this morning. He showed me Kew Gardens. I had not been before, and I enjoyed it very much.”

Shock, gratification, and eagerness mingled on Lady Quale’s face. “But Laura, how could you?”

Laura pressed her lips together, then said, “I am convinced that the reports about Mr. Allenby are much exaggerated. I assure you he was most gentlemanly.”

Her caller shook her head. “Oh my dear, if you have fallen under the spell of his charm, you are lost. I beg you…”

“I have done no such thing,” snapped Laura, goaded beyond politeness. “Nor do I see why a simple morning ride should cause such consternation.”

“Had it been anyone else, I mean
anyone
else in London, my dear, no one would have remarked it. But Mr. Allenby!” Lady Quale clasped her hands dramatically. “After what I
told
you!”

The memory of this did not improve Laura’s temper. She stood. “Thank you for coming,” she said, “but I assure you that your
kindness
was completely unnecessary. I am able to look after myself.”

The older woman now showed a spark of anger too. “You will ruin yourself if you keep on this way.”

Laura’s eyes flashed. She looked magnificent as she looked down at her visitor. “I fear you must excuse me. I have pressing duties.”

Lady Quale also rose haughtily. “You will regret talking to me in this way, my girl. But not as much as you will regret becoming entangled with Jack Allenby, I fancy. Do you think your husband will stand by complacently? You are out there, I can tell you. And you may be sure your aunts will hear of your conduct.”

Laura stiffened, holding her tongue only with an immense effort. “You will do just as you please, of course,” she replied at last. And she began to walk toward the drawing room doorway.

Lady Quale followed perforce and was ushered out by Mr. Dunham, who had clearly been attracted by their raised voices. Laura wondered angrily how much he had heard. It seemed the final insult—a hostile eavesdropper in her own house.

Left alone, she clenched her fists. On an impulse she ran to the writing desk in the corner. On a sheet of pressed note paper, she dashed off a note accepting Mr. Allenby’s invitation to the masquerade. Let them all say what they please. Let Eliot find out! She was not to be humiliated in this way, not by anyone.

BOOK: Jane Ashford
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