Maggie MacKeever (19 page)

By this latter confession, Angelica looked so cast down that Valerian nearly laughed aloud. “Don’t let him, there’s a good girl! I doubt I’d care for pistols at daybreak. Sis, do stop that pacing before you break something! Come here and sit down.”

Angelica obeyed. “Naturally I am subject to liverish depressions,” she said gloomily. “With Rosemary accusing me not only of entering into a ruinous entanglement but of enjoying it excessively—Valerian, she actually informed me that I should not have sullied my reputation because
Marigold
would be broken-hearted at the disgrace!”

This, too, was a novel notion. Valerian sampled it. “No, that won’t fadge,” he said, the digestive process complete. “Mind you, Marigold would be cross as cats, but she’s not the sort to go off in an apoplexy.”

“What is this? When did Chalmers say you were head of the family? Valerian, did he come
here?”

“Haven’t I said so? You’re asking a lot of deuced silly questions, Sis. Chalmers seemed to think I might have some influence with the other one—not what’s-her-name but the pea-goose! You know who I mean.”

“Lily. I assume you disabused Chalmers of the notion that you would provide him assistance?”

“Oh, yes!” Valerian was unmoved by his sister’s heavy irony. To move Valerian Millikin to compunction was beyond the capacities of a mere mortal, and very possibly beyond the capabilities of even the Almighty. “I made that very clear. I also told him that the chit would have nothing to do with anyone eligible.”

Without hesitation, Angelica took the wind out of her brother’s sails. “You’re out! Lily is going to make the most eligible of matches.” She related the saga of the duke’s courtship, Lily’s brief sulks and sudden capitulation, the plans for the upcoming nuptials. “She informed me over the breakfast cups this morning that I have cut up all her hopes. Lily has been contriving to throw Kingscote at my head, being convinced that since we both are
clever
we would deal delightfully! But she has given in with good enough grace, so her future is assured.”

Definitely, thought Valerian, his favorite sister was growing paper-skulled. Though he barely remembered Lily, he doubted very strongly this transformation of a pea-goose into a pattern-card of respectability. Valerian did not air his suspicion that another of their sisters was engaged in grave duplicity, lest Angelica further exhaust herself trying to persuade the pea-goose to desist from her vagaries.

He glanced at Angelica, who was looking somber. “Chalmers also said you were an excellent creature, which was very pretty in him. Are you certain you’re not nourishing a
tendre,
Sis?”

A
tendre
for Lord Chalmers, who had never in all his life indulged in a single depraved pursuit? As is frequently the case with ladies, Angelica’s acquaintance with a gentleman admittedly steeped in vice had inspired in her a conviction that virtue was a dead bore. “How absurd you are! Rosemary herself is quite
éprise
in that direction, I believe. What Chalmers may feel is difficult to guess; he doesn’t wear his heart upon his sleeve. Valerian, it is the queerest thing: Rosemary told me this morning—while taking me to task for neglecting my duties!—that she has come by the means to reclaim the Chalmers sapphires. I don’t know what to think! Except that I’m very doubtful Chalmers gave her the money. He is acting in the oddest way—were it anyone but Chalmers, I would say he is exhibiting the unmistakable signs of an enraged spouse!”

Valerian had grown weary of the problems of what’s-her-name and husband; he was much more interested in why Angelica looked so pulled-about. Therefore, he aired his opinion that Lord Chalmers was wonderfully stiff-rumped, and inquired how Angelica fared with Sir Randall and Simon Brisbane.

“Oh, very well!” Angelica laughed. “Simon keeps us
au courant
with the latest stories fabricated in the bay-window at White’s and whispered in the clubrooms of St. James’s and Pall Mall.”

“Certainly Simon should be
au courant.”
said Valerian. “I believe he is the subject of a great many of those
on-dits.”

Had Valerian meant to remind his sister of the infamous character of the gentleman who kept her so well entertained, he would have failed. “People will always talk about Simon,” Angelica responded, somewhat wistfully. “He is a hardened rakeshame.”

“A regular dash.” Valerian took up a position near Angelica’s chair. “You don’t mind that he’s a rakehell, Sis?”

“Mind? Why should I?” Angelica looked perplexed. “Under more ordinary circumstances I would feel differently, I suppose—had we met in society I could hardly converse so freely with him, lest people think
I
was wishful of becoming a lesson in depravity. But these circumstances are not ordinary; to Simon I must seem a female of dubious origin; and since he doesn’t know I’m gently bred, none of us need consider delicate principles and tender sensibilities. I tell you, Valerian, it is marvelous to be so free of restraint!”

Definitely Angelica was growing paper-skulled. Valerian put forth a warning that, lest she wish to see him carve out Simon Brisbane’s liver and fry it for daylight, she had best insure that Simon did not equate freedom with liberty.

“Valerian!” Astonished by the notion that she should dally among the flesh-pots in company with a hardened rakeshame, which is not to say the notion had not previously occurred to her, though she had failed to take it seriously, Angelica gaped at her brother. Then the humor of the situation struck her, for Valerian’s suddenly protective attitude was as absurd as the notion that Simon should give her brother cause to rush to her defense. She giggled.

“You misunderstand, Valerian! Simon is careful to give no offense; as opposed to paying me attentions that are too pointed, he pays me no attention that is not merely courteous.” She put herself to rights, preparing to depart. “Why, he is even so kind as to answer all my questions—or most of them. It occurs to me he still has not explained to me just what is an orgy.”

“A
what?”
echoed Valerian, in such shocked tones that Angelica paused half way through the act of rising from her chair.

“An orgy,” she repeated. “Are you gone deaf? Why are you staring at me? Oh! Do you know what an orgy is. Valerian? Because if you do I wish very much that you would tell me.”

“You asked Simon Brisbane to explain to you an orgy?”
Valerian said again. “How could you be so feather-brained? And don’t be saying it doesn’t signify a straw what you ask him because he doesn’t know who you are—that’s so much moonshine! You’ve taken some deuced queer notions into your head lately, Sis, and I don’t mind telling you I don’t care for it.”

“Don’t
you, then?” Angelica had heard out her brother’s admonitions with a growing sense of injustice which was not at all lessened by a faint fear that what he said was true. “It was not bad enough that Rosemary accused me of low conduct, now you must accuse me of worse! It is very poorly done of both of you, because I haven’t misbehaved—at least not enough to warrant comment! And even if I
had,
I don’t know anyone who is more entitled!”

Bizarre behavior indeed was this, from his cool and sensible sister; Valerian made an attempt at conciliation. “I didn’t—”

“You did so! Don’t try and bamboozle me! Oh, there is no point in trying to talk to you!” Angelica stalked across the room and through the door. With such force did she slam that portal that the glass rattled in Valerian’s display cases. Anxiously he insured that no damage had been done. It had been very bad of Angelica, he thought, to act in so thankless a manner. He had only meant to put her on guard against imparting an impression that she was susceptible to weaknesses of the flesh.

Down the stairway tramped Angelica, through the hallway, to the front door. This she yanked open. Before her, on the uppermost step of the night that ascended from the street, were two figures that Angelica had hoped to never see again. No less startled, the resurrectionists stared.

Angelica was first to recover from her surprise, and to realize that here was a perfect opportunity to at least partially quench her newfound thirst for violence: frankly, she demanded to know the object of their visit. This had to do, she speedily discovered, with a giant currently on exhibit in a raree-show, the skeleton of whom Mallet and Bimble believed would make an excellent subject for anatomical study.

“Monstrous!” uttered Angelica at this point. “Can you not wait until the poor man has expired before you make arrangements for his remains? Or is it that you think to hasten his demise? What an extraordinary affair! I’ve a good notion to turn you over to the authorities.”

Lest she do so on the spot, Bimble spoke hastily. He expressed himself in the most subdued and penitent manner; he begged the lady to consider his unenviable position; he professed himself no more, or less, than any other man with his own way to make in the world. Perhaps the nature of his livelihood was a little gruesome, a bit beyond the pale—but it was a livelihood that must be undertaken by someone. As for the giant, they were merely looking to the future, and meant him no harm.

‘Talking don’t pay toll!” interrupted Mallet, when Bimble showed indication of proceeding in a philosophical vein. “Now that you see how it is with us, ma’am, you won’t be running rusty. We wouldn’t be quick forgetting if you was to have us nicked—why, we might be so overset that we was to blab all we knew about yourself and a certain gentleman—and it would be terrible if a lady of your position was to be placed in such a fix!”

Unfortunately for the dire implications of this speech, Angelica didn’t properly grasp the gist of it.
“What
fix?”

“Ah, now, don’t be trying to persuade us you don’t know the time of day!” responded Mallet.
“We
very well know chalk from cheese! Don’t be thinking to run to your gentleman friend with this tale, either. He couldn’t see us quietened before we laid an information against him, much as he might like to, because there’s no denying he’s devilish disagreeable when he takes one of his bad turns.”

“Bad turns?” echoed Angelica, faintly.

“You know how it is,” Mallet retorted, erroneously. “Don’t pretend you don’t! Still, it might stay our little secret, was you to persuade us not to give evidence.”

Such was the effect of these disclosures on Angelica, in her current enfeebled state, that she felt as if she might swoon. Could she possibly have mistaken the resurrectionists’ meaning? Surely Sir Randall had not—she must find out. To that end, Angelica regarded Mallet and Biroble sternly; requested in icy tones that they withdraw from her pathway; decreed in the most decidedly unequivocal terms that, did they not take summarily to their heels and thenceforth refrain from darkening her path, she would summon an officer of the peace.

“In a pig’s whisker you’ll call a homey!” said Mallet, as neither he nor his companion budged an inch. “Climb down off your high horse, missy, unless you want to see your gentleman friend hobbled and taken off to gaol. Which now that I think on it is where the gaffer belongs to be! He can’t be up to his tricks in quod, or do harm to those as doesn’t deserve it done to.”

Sir Randall had committed some past offense so heinous that exposure would result in imprisonment? Even worse, Mallet intimated that Sir Randall might repeat that offense? Here was something more ominous than Angelica had feared—more ominous certainly than a simple preoccupation with the organic remains of souls called to their eternal rest. Angelica recalled her employer’s operating room, and his zealous comments about dissection, and thought she knew what that offense might be. Poor Sir Randall, a once-eminent physician now deteriorated into the most loveable of madmen! And poor Simon! At last Angelica understood why he had set spies on his sire.

“What,” she inquired in cowed tones, “do you want me to do?”

Mallet was pleased to see the young lady conduct herself at last in a highly fit and proper way. In a handsome manner, and with an evil smile, he intimated that the resurrectionists would, if their palms were properly greased, keep quiet as oysters about Sir Randall Brisbane.

Chapter Sixteen

Miss Lily Millikin was deep in contemplation of a most important matter: who among her swains would be privileged to escort her to Gretna Green? Prolonged rumination had brought Lily only the realization that she could love neither Messr. Meadowcraft nor Gildensleeve, Steptoe nor Pettijohn. Quite naturally, Lily would not elope with a man she could not love—and she was finding it very difficult to fall in love on cue. Furthermore, if she were to betray her own high principles, especially the principle that the world was well lost for romance, that betrayal would not be accomplished for and with a penniless jackanapes. Kingscote might not be the soul of romance, but he at least offered his bride-to-be position and advantage and wealth.

That Lily had no interest in such practical aspects of her upcoming nuptials, she did not feel free to inform the duke, nor that a display of ardor might have done much to reconcile her to an absence of romance. Had Kingscote given the slightest indication of passion held strongly in check, Lily might have looked on him with a much more kindly eye; had the duke allowed himself to be carried away by the violence of his feelings, she might have discovered in herself a positive enthusiasm for her hitherto unappreciated betrothal. But His Grace was very careful not to frighten his young
fiancée
with passion, violent or otherwise; and Lily, in whose shell-like earlobes heated effusions had been murmured since she was old enough to hear, keenly felt her prospective bridegroom’s lack of appreciation. In short, her vanity was piqued.

But Lily was a kind-hearted girl, and therefore did not seek to repay the duke in his own cold coin. As she had once told Fennel, Lily held His Grace in great regard. Much time passed in his pleasant company had led her to believe that, despite his advanced years, they might have dealt very well together, had he only formed a true attachment for her. Unfortunately Kingscote had not formed that attachment. Why he should wish to marry her, Lily could not guess; perhaps her remarks about decrepit peers had reminded him that he was embarking childless on his own old age. Angelica was much more in the duke’s style, Lily thought somberly. Aloud she made a comment about the folly of clasping vipers to one’s bosom, and the sharpness of adder’s teeth.