Pretty Polly (6 page)

“When do you think he will propose?” asked Verity.

“This week, I think. He is already champing at the bit. But there are going to be no more proposals in the drawing room. The Yellow Saloon has just been redecorated. Pomfret will make sure no one goes near it but Lord Veney. The drawing room has long windows leading into that excuse for a garden at the back. I am persuaded some vicious female came by that way and poured poison into Chalfont’s ears. Chalfont, by the way, is gone from town, so you will not be able to question him. Fiddle. I go driving with Veney this afternoon, so I shan’t need you.”

When she had gone, Verity slowly opened the letter.

Now, I know he is teasing, but Charlotte would not, thought Verity. The duke went on to give a detailed description of the work on his estates, his impatience with his tenant farmers who fought against using any of the new phosphates to enrich the land, and his battle with the local magistrates who would insist on cruel punishments for poachers. It was quite a long letter and ended with the hope of receiving further news from Charlotte.

But I cannot write any more, thought Verity. In her mind’s eye, she had made the duke look like that gentleman in the posting house she had seen so long ago. She had no money to pay postage herself. She could write a letter and leave it on the hall table where it would be dealt with along with the rest of the post, but Charlotte might see it. Verity hated not having any money at all. The trip on the Catch-me-who-can had cost a shilling and Lady Wythe had paid that. Verity wondered again whether Charlotte had taken her money.

When she had told Lady Wythe of her loss, the dowager had immediately suggested that Charlotte had done it in order to keep her until her usefulness ran out.

Verity spent a comfortable hour in the park with her old friend but could not tell her about the letters, for Verity felt that would be betraying her hostess.

*   *   *

The weather continued cold. Verity shivered indoors. Charlotte was parsimonious about things like fires. She never seemed to feel the cold herself and moved through the chilly rooms of her mansion dressed in the thinnest of muslin.

Lord Veney was to call to ask for Charlotte’s hand in marriage the next day. As she had no parents to approach, she assumed that was his intent. “And after what he did to me at the back of the opera box,” said Charlotte, her face flushing, “then he had better.”

“What did he do?” asked Verity.

“When you were leaning over the box with a hand to your ear to catch every note, he stole a kiss.”

“Was that so very bad?”

“Wait. Then he plunged his hand down the front of my gown and tweaked my breast!”

“Was he foxed? I mean, why would a gentleman do a thing like that?”

Charlotte gave Verity an odd look. “You’ll find out one day,” she said. “Now, the earl is a bit of a rip, so I must dress accordingly. There is no need for you to be present.”

“Charlotte, you will be spending the rest of your life with this man. Do you have affection and respect for him?”

“Affection and respect for Veney? You odd girl. I tell you straight, he is a boor and a lecher. But once I am countess, he may find his pleasures elsewhere. After I breed, I shall be finished with that side of marriage—and let us hope he can manage it quickly, for I could not bear him in my bed for very long.”

Pretty Polly wheezed and rattled the bars of its cage. “And keep that smelly parrot locked up while
he is here,” said Charlotte, getting up and leaving the room.

Verity went over to the toilet table, filled a basin with water, and bathed her hot cheeks. Charlotte often sounded like a strumpet.

It appeared she was determined to dress like one for the proposal.

That evening, she gave Verity a dress rehearsal, parading before her in a morning gown of pink spotted muslin. It was simple and correct in line, with little puff sleeves stiffened with cambric and with three deep flounces at the hem. But the muslin was nearly transparent and Charlotte had damped it so that it clung to her body.

“I can see your garters through the cloth,” said Verity faintly.

“Good,” said Charlotte. “That should fetch him.”

Just before Lord Veney was due to arrive, Verity locked Pretty Polly up in its great brass cage, removed the cat and dog from her bed for the umpteenth time by yanking the coverlet and sending them tumbling onto the floor, and went down the back stairs to the kitchens to discuss arrangements for an engagement celebration with the housekeeper.

Verity liked going down to the kitchens and sitting at the scrubbed table and talking to the housekeeper, Mrs. Andrew.

Upstairs in Verity’s bedroom, Pretty Polly was throwing a parrot tantrum, jumping up and down in its cage. At last it settled down on the bottom, its shoulders hunched. It cast a bleak eye at the door of the cage and then hopped two steps and eased its right claw through the bars. It fiddled with the catch. There was a click and the door
sprang open. Pretty Polly shuffled out onto the perch outside. It heard a sound at the door and hopped down to the floor and leaned against the wall.

Two chambermaids came in to clean Verity’s room. The parrot shuffled through the open door, unobserved by them. It made its way to the main staircase and cocked its head to one side. The parrot raised a claw and gave its head feathers a meditative scratch; then it combed out the gold fringe on its legs with its beak and began to hop down the stairs.

The double doors to the Yellow Saloon were standing open. There was a large bowl of nuts on a console table in the center of the room.

Pretty Polly hopped onto the table, selected a large walnut, and retreated behind a china cabinet in the corner to crack the shell.

Lord Veney was late. Charlotte had damped her muslin for the third time when he eventually arrived.

Obeying his instructions to the letter, Pomfret showed the earl into the saloon, served him a glass of canary, bowed, and left.

With his glass in his hand, Lord Veney strutted up and down the long room, picking up objects and examining them and then putting them down. There was a carved box on a little side table. He opened the lid and it immediately began to crank out a tune. “Music boxes,” said Lord Veney aloud, and shut the lid with a snap. “Never could abide the bloody things.”

“Pretty Polly,” said a voice from behind the china cabinet.

Lord Veney stood amazed, his glass raised halfway to his lips.

Then the voice began again and it was undoubtedly
Charlotte’s voice, “Affection and respect for Veney? You odd girl. I tell you straight, he is a boor and a lecher. But once I am countess, he may find his pleasures elsewhere. After I breed, I shall be finished with that side of marriage—and let us hope he can manage it quickly, for I could not bear him in my bed for very long.”

Lord Veney carefully put down his glass and looked at the empty fireplace. He was sure the flue was acting as some sort of speaking tube and that what he had just heard was Charlotte talking to Verity in a room above.

He thought of plain and dowdy Miss Tring of Gloucester, who had adored him for years and whom he had snubbed. And all because of an infatuation for some trollop. Miss Tring should break her heart no longer. He would ride to Gloucester that very day and propose.

The doors of the saloon opened and Charlotte tripped in. Lord Veney looked her up and down. “You are disgusting and shameless,” he said.

He walked past her. He did not even stop to collect his hat and cane. He went straight out of the house and soon his angry voice could be heard shouting to his coachmen to “spring ’em.”

Charlotte began to scream, and when she had finished screaming, she demanded that every inch of the room be searched. Pretty Polly had sidled quietly out as the street door was slammed by Lord Veney. The parrot sailed quietly up the stairs. The chambermaids had finished their work and the bedroom door was standing open. The parrot flew back to its cage, and by the time Verity had coaxed the distraught Charlotte up to her room, the bird was asleep.

Freezing rooms and wet muslin finally got the better of Charlotte’s robust constitution and
she came down with a feverish cold. Verity nursed her conscientiously, glad that none of the pets showed any inclination to invade Charlotte’s bedchamber.

The Duke of Denbigh had hired a new secretary. Unlike his father, he believed in employing local people whenever possible. The secretary was, therefore, Mr. Tom Crabbe, a local youth who had excelled at the village school. He was correct, hardworking, and obedient. But the duke was wondering whether he had made a mistake. The letters from Charlotte had ceased. He had broken down and written a teasing request for more news, but still nothing arrived from London. He began to suspect his poor secretary of losing letters. The duke started to collect all the post himself. Still no letter. His days began to take on a new pattern. The post boy arrived at ten in the morning. The duke rose at six. From six to ten, life seemed full of anticipation and promise; from ten to sunset, it seemed like a desert.

He began to become angry. He felt as if Charlotte had rejected and betrayed him again. At last his anger was so great that he decided he had been right not to go to London to see her. She had not changed one whit.

Recovered from her fever, Charlotte smiled wanly at Verity. “The next man who means to propose to me can do so outside this house. There is a curse on it.”

Verity, who did not believe in curses but did believe that Charlotte was unfortunate in her choice of suitors, remained silent.

“You are a good and kind friend, Verity,” said Charlotte, stretching out her plump little hand and
clasping Verity’s strong, slim one. “Has Denbigh written?”

“You told me to stop writing to him, if you remember. He did write some time ago, obviously wondering at your silence.”

Charlotte dropped Verity’s hand and stared at her in amazement. “You utter fool,” she snapped. “What else had you to do with your time?”

Verity held her gaze. “I was nursing you, among other things.”

Charlotte shifted restlessly against the pillows. “Yes, yes. I am grateful. Very. But you should have used your wits, girl. With Veney off, then it follows that Denbigh must be on again.”

Verity sighed. Why had her father decided to stay in Edinburgh? Aloud she said, “I might have taken the initiative, but I do not have any money, if you will recall, not even for a stamp.”

“Oh, that. It is your own fault, you know, I do not know why you persisted in stopping me from investigating the servants.”

“Do you not?” asked Verity quietly.

Charlotte shifted again. “You have only to ask me for money. I shall let you have some… er, tomorrow. Please be my angelest darling and write to Denbigh.”

The Duke of Denbigh looked at the letter as if it were a snake. To leave it unread and forget about the whole business would mean he would keep his peace of mind. It lay unopened for the whole day until curiosity overcame him.

He read it with surprise and consternation. Charlotte had been ill! That was why she had ceased to write. And he had credited her with all sorts of evil machinations.

He sat down and began to write.

*   *   *

Charlotte looked up as Verity quietly entered her bedchamber with the post. “A letter from Denbigh.”

“You read it,” said Charlotte petulantly. “He is probably boring on about crops as usual.”

Verity broke open the heavy seal. The letter was short. The duke was alarmed to hear of her illness. He was traveling to London to see her and would arrive at his town house in Cavendish Square at the end of the week.

“Huzzah!” cried Charlotte, her face flushed with excitement. She flung back the covers, jumped from the bed, ran to the door, and started to shout for Pomfret.

Verity remained with the letter in her hand. She felt very sad. The dream was over. She had fondly imagined continuing the correspondence for a few more weeks until her return home, a few more weeks of dreaming of this fantasy lover.

She got to her feet and began to open all the drawers in the bureau in the corner of Charlotte’s room. There, stuffed at the very back of the bottom drawer, she found her purse. She was not very surprised. She stood, weighing it up and down in her hand. Why retreat now? Life was very pleasant. Charlotte was bearable. If she journeyed to Market Basset, she would need to stay with one of the neighbors until her father’s return. She could not leave the pets to Charlotte’s tender mercies, and she could not think of one sober citizen in her hometown who would be prepared to put up with the menagerie. Besides, why not stay and see this duke? He could not possibly be such a paragon as Lady Wythe had described. He was thirty-one and not yet married. Probably this Adonis was very difficult. His letters had been informative and
charming. Verity suddenly giggled. How amusing it would be if it transpired he had not written any of them and had got a friend to write them for him.

Having decided to stay until her father sent for her, Verity made up her mind to do some shopping for herself. She could now afford to be a little extravagant.

She returned later that day, happy and exhausted. She had bought a new collar for Tray, a toy mouse for the cat, hothouse grapes for the parrot, and a length of burgundy-colored silk for herself. Pastels did not become Verity. Of course, she was not going to all this trouble for the duke, she told herself firmly. She simply felt she would be cheered by a new gown.

Charlotte spent the remaining days before the duke’s arrival in a flurry of hectic activity. The house was full from morning to night with mantua makers, milliners, jewelers, and plumassiers.

Verity diligently stitched at her new gown or walked the pets in the park. “Mrs. Manners is in high alt,” Verity confided in Lady Wythe. “Denbigh is coming to town expressly to see her.”