The Wicked Guardian (2 page)

2
.

At the time that Clare was about to learn from her grandmother’s lips of her great good fortune, a certain house looking out on Grosvenor Square was beginning to face a new day, a day that was destined to rock the household to its foundations.

Lady Thane’s house in Grosvenor Square caught the midmorning light. The house was astir with its usual activities, more particularly in the kitchens, where Mrs. Darrin waited serenely for the bell to ring and the indicator for Lady Thane’s bedroom to drop, signifying that Lady Thane had roused from sleep and was, if not ready, at least willing to face the day.

“Not like the old days, is it?” grumbled Darrin, the butler, to his wife. “Not like when there was entertaining, twenty to dinner more often than not, and such a stir of carriages in the square outside as would make a cat smile.”

“And sorry enough you were at the time, Darrin,” retorted his wife smartly. ‘Too much to do, you always said. Although you had footmen enough, and maids, too, to do it all.”

The discussion was not a new one, and uncovered no new ground, and at length died of its own inertia. Hobbs, an angular, tart-faced woman who had tended Lady Thane since her marriage more than twenty years before, and therefore held a position of unquestioned superiority over the Darrins, hurried in, her handful of letters attesting that the post had just come.

“And not much in it, either,” said Hobbs. “A letter from Miss Harriet, I should say Lady Cromford, and we can guess that something has gone awry down at the Hall. But...” She stopped short to frown down at a letter that puzzled her. “I can’t make this out,” she muttered, and then, the bell ringing sharply, the letter was dropped on the morning tray, Mrs. Darrin made tea from the kettle already on the boil, and with practiced efficiency the breakfast tray for Lady Thane was borne up the service stairs to the floor above. Lady Thane was an indulgent mistress, relying more on the affection her servants had for her than to her management, and she was well-served. In fact, as Lady Thane’s daughter, Harriet, sometimes told her, “They have little else to do than to wait on you hand and foot.”

Lady Thane replied, “I do think we get along comfortably together. I am sure I want for nothing.”

Just now, on this April morning, she was propped up in her bed upon freshly fluffed pillows, the breakfast tray upon her lap, and Hobbs moving quietly around the room. The draperies were opened, and the sunshine poured in.

The stack of envelopes on the breakfast tray did not receive Lady Thane’s attention until after her second cup of tea. Truly, she thought, it takes longer and longer to wake up in the morning. The tea is too weak—she must speak to Mrs. Darrin about it.

Languidly turning over the envelopes, she indulged herself in her usual habit, trying to divine the contents from the outer appearance.

“This is surely a card to the duchess’s ball at Syon House. But Syon House is so removed, Hobbs, it quite oversets me to think of traveling that far. Especially at night.” She sighed. “I fear I must turn it down. And yet, if one continually turns down these invitations, one soon finds oneself out of the swim altogether. I don’t know what to do.”

Hobbs gave her no encouragement, correctly surmising that her mistress was communing entirely with herself. Hobbs placed the screen before the fire that struggled in the grate. Green wood—Hobbs scowled—and she would have a thing or two to say belowstairs about that!

An exclamation behind her made her turn inquiringly to Lady Thane. She was peering in a decidedly puzzled manner at the same heavy square envelope that had aroused Hobbs’s curiosity. The butterfly patch she wore to discourage lines between her eyebrows bent with her effort to decipher the writing on the envelope.

“Hobbs, what do you think of this?”

Hobbs chose discretion. “I really could not say, my lady.”

“No, of course not. But I wonder ... I haven’t seen this handwriting for years. More years than I intend to remember,” said Lady Thane with spirit. She went on to remember the years.

“This certainly takes me back,” she said presently. “This is from old Lady Penryck. The dowager, you know.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Elizabeth Tresillian’s mother-in-law. You must know, Hobbs, that Elizabeth and I grew up near neighbors and closest of friends in Devon. I was a Launceville, you know, and although there was a connection between our families, it was such a long time ago that it was of no account. But growing up together made the difference.”

She leaned back against her lace-covered pillows, her breakfast forgotten. “We came out together, presented at the same ball in London, you know. Elizabeth was the prettiest belle of the season. She had at least five offers in the first six weeks!”

Lost in her reveries, she was once again a girl, dancing at four different parties every night, after a round of afternoon outings, and riding in the park in the morning. Elizabeth had married Robert Penryck and gone to live in Dorset. And Helen Launceville, not quite so pretty but much more fortunate, married a pleasant, kind man of substantial wealth—not exciting, but, thought Lady Thane, much more durable, after all.

“Elizabeth and Robert were killed in an accident on the road to Exeter. Horses ran away and the carriage overturned.” Lady Thane shook her head. “Robert Penryck always thought he was a notable whip, you know, but in fact he was lamentably slow-witted. But one thing he did have—the Penryck
resolution.

“I daresay it led to his demise—a frosty night, so they said, and the road not at all trustworthy. But they both died in the accident. I was godmother to their daughter, you know. But my own affairs were troublesome, and I let things go. When the girl was first sent to old Lady Penryck, I heard from time to time how she was getting on. But since then...”

She frowned once again at the letter. Had she been a woman of some sensitivity, one might have thought she was seized by a feeling of impending trouble, even disaster. But she was not, and Hobbs thought she was simply prolonging the delicious feeling of anticipation.

“What do you think, Hobbs?”

“I think, begging your pardon, my lady, that the letter might tell you what is going forward.
If
you opened it.”

“How commonsensical you are, Hobbs.” She broke the wafer and began to read.

“What dreadful handwriting!” she exclaimed. But the letter explained the handwriting, too.

“My dear Helen,” it began. “A long time has elapsed since I have had the pleasure of hearing from you, although I have kept myself informed of your circumstances as well as I have been able, living in the confines of Penryck Abbey, itself isolated to a degree from the world of society. I have heard of Thane’s death, for which I offer condolence, and, two years ago, of your daughter Harriet’s marriage. You have done well for your daughter, marrying her to such an unexceptional gentleman as Braintree Cromford. I confess it is partly your daughter’s felicity that prompts me to turn to you in what must be a dilemma that I cannot resolve alone.”

Lady Thane turned over the letter. There was much more—and already she felt a foreboding of more than trouble. With a sigh she turned back, found her place again in the crabbed hand, and set herself resolutely to make her way through the labyrinth.

“My dear granddaughter, Clare, is my deepest concern. I myself have been far from well for these ten years, and now I find that I cannot do even the smallest things that I once was able to manage with ease. I do not these days leave my bed.”

Poor thing
! thought Lady Thane. Even though she herself lay comfortably in bed just now, she could leave it at will. And even such a complacent woman as herself could see that pain racked the invalid whose handwriting was so bad.

“I have made my will, and named a guardian for Clare. The will is in the hands of my man of affairs, Herbert Austin. But there is not much longer for me. And I do wish to see my dear granddaughter settled in life as soon as possible. I want her to have a season in London, and a chance to make a satisfactory marriage, before she must go into mourning, which I am sorry to say will be inevitable, and quite soon. Although, for myself, I shall welcome whatever release is to come from my discomfort, I shall rest more easily knowing that my dear Clare has enjoyed herself a little.”

Lady Thane was a compassionate woman, even if her intellect was not powerful, and the words of the letter swam before her eyes.

Lady Thane dropped the letter on the counterpane. “Hobbs,” she directed, “I wish to get up at once.”

Hobbs stared at her, alarmed at Lady Thane’s abrupt departure from custom. “It lacks a quarter-hour of ten o’clock, my lady,” Hobbs pointed out.

“I do not wish, after all, Hobbs, to spend my entire
life
in bed. I think I shall wear the light blue tunic with the gold trim, Hobbs. It always makes me feel more cheerful.”

She read, presently, the rest of the letter. The child Clare was old for her age—sixteen in June—for she had been in her grandmother’s company for some years, and had taken over much of the running of the establishment She was much like her mother, Elizabeth. Thank goodness for that! thought Lady Thane. Elizabeth had been a beauty, and of a sweetness of disposition that was remarkable.

She could have taken after her father, mused Lady Thane. A man of mild enough character, but possessed of an unexpected stubbornness when it came to gambling away his fortune. The well-known Penryck resolution, while all very well on the battlefields of Europe, was sadly inappropriate at the gaming tables of the Dandy Club, combined as it was with a strong, if unmerited optimism.

If Lady Penryck wanted Clare’s godmother to launch her into society, the apprehension of a decided change in her way of living was daunting to Lady Thane. But no one had ever said that Helen Launceville did not do her duty, and no one ever should.

Referring once again to the letter, she deciphered the last paragraph. “I shall pray that you will take this charge upon yourself, and will be ever grateful. Clare would travel with her maid, two grooms, a footman, and the coachman, and I trust that you will allow Budge to remain with Clare. I would not have you put to the trouble...” There was more, but a cursory glance indicated that the rest of the letter was taken up with civilities, and not to the point.

Hobbs dropped the light blue sarcenet over her mistress’s head. From the folds Lady Thane’s voice came muffled. “I must write at once. Poor child. It will be pleasant to have a young girl around the house again. I must answer all those invitations that came this morning, begging the courtesy of bringing my goddaughter. And the bedrooms, Hobbs”—her voice was clear again as the maid straightened the folds of the skirt—“I think the Blue Room will be the best. There is a smaller room next for the maid. What’s her name? Budge? And there will be all manner of arrangements needed—I vow I don’t know what to do first.”

“Perhaps Mr. Darrin would know?” said Hobbs with a straight face.

“I should say not! I believe I know what is best in my own house. I shall tell Darrin what I wish done.”

The conference with Darrin settled Lady Thane’s mind, and she could rest assured that her goddaughter’s comfort would be uppermost in the minds of her household. Lady Thane could then turn her thought to confiding in a few of her very
closest
friends, perhaps an even dozen of them, that her goddaughter—Elizabeth Tresillian’s daughter, you know—was on her way to London. Armed with promises of cards to balls, invitations to routs, and a general certitude that she had done what she could and all must wait now upon the arrival of the girl, Lady Thane declared to herself with unquenchable optimism that the girl must of necessity be biddable, very pretty, and sweet-natured. Lady Thane looked forward to an excessively successful season.

Casting her cares comfortably away, Lady Thane ordered her barouche and ordered her coachman, John Potter, to drive to the park. As usual, the pleasant motion of the carriage, the balmy May air upon her powdered cheeks, soothed her mind as she greeted her many acquaintances. Her matchmaking thoughts, stimulated by the faces she saw, came to the fore.

Ned Fenton, for example, bowing to her now. A splendid figure on horseback, and wealthy enough to overlook the lack of a dowry in a bride, if he could be attracted.

His great friend, Benedict Choate, riding there on a magnificent black—now,
there
had been the greatest catch in London, until last fall, when his engagement to Miss Marianna Morton had been announced in the
Gazette.
Fabulously wealthy, yet he was noted for a sardonic turn of mind and a daunting curl of lip, and Lady Thane, eminently practical, told herself that he would no doubt quell, with one word, a chit of a girl up from the country. No matter! She decided she would take good care to keep Clare away from Lord Benedict Choate!

Then there was Sir Alexander Ferguson, and Mr. Marriott—wealthy, but there was a whisper that his grandfather had been in trade.

She really must get to thinking about various schemes. All in all, she must wait, she decided, until the girl got here. And then, for the first time, foreboding struck her. If the girl was not yet sixteen, then...

Ominous whisperings came to her mind, a reflection of her long experience in the world of society. A girl, who had no polish at all, probably reared by an old-fashioned governess, living in her grandmother’s sphere with none of the amenities of modern-day living—what dreadful things might the girl do, or say? The possibilities went beyond description.