Two Corinthians (15 page)

“Very nice. But I wish you will call me Lizzie. When I hear 'Elizabeth' I always think of Mama.”

“Of course, Miss Lizzie.”

“No, just Lizzie. I wish you will not be so formal!”

“I hardly think that will be proper,” his lordship said stiffly.

She studied his face. Her suggestion obviously made him uncomfortable. Were appearances so important to Lord Pomeroy that he shied away from the merest hint of impropriety, or was it the suggestion of intimacy he shunned?  She suspected the latter, but wondered whether he himself realised it. Of one thing she was sure: Claire was wrong in believing him insensitive.  More likely, excessive sensitivity made him afraid of exposing his feelings.

She sighed.

“Lizzie, I'm sorry.” He reached for her hand with a rueful look. “Of course there can be no harm in it. I am a pompous slowtop, or any name you wish to call me.”

“Bertram will do very well.” With a tremulous smile she put her hand in his, to be enveloped in his warm strength. For an endless moment her eyes met eyes as blue as her own. Then he let go her hand and she breathed again.

He stood up. “It is time I was on my way,” he said in a neutral voice.  “I shall call tomorrow, Miss Sutton, to assure myself that you have not taken cold from our drive. Or may I call you Claire, since Lizzie and I have just concluded a pact against formality?”  He smiled with his habitual charm.

Claire looked flustered. “If you wish, my lord,” she faltered.

“Bertram,” he corrected gently, raising her hand to his lips.

Lizzie looked away.

George also departed. He was going out of town for a few days, but he promised to call upon his return.

“Will you miss me?” he asked Lizzie teasingly.

“The sun will not shine while you are gone!” she exclaimed in a melodramatic tone, and they laughed.

Her prophecy was all too accurate. In the night the wind died, to be replaced by a persistent, depressing drizzle that continued all week. There was no question of driving or walking in the park, and they took hackneys except to the closest shops. Bertram called twice but found them out, for Lizzie was determined to accumulate a respectable wardrobe as quickly as possible.

By the time the sun came glimmering damply through the clouds, she knew she was ready for anything but a full dress ball.

At that point, she realised that Claire had not kept pace. The sum total of her sister's purchases was an umbrella, a pair of half boots and two pair of woollen stockings.

“This is your Season,” said Claire stubbornly.  “I shall not need to dress up, since I am not looking for a husband.”

Lizzie was dismayed. Her own words came back to her, that Claire was afraid of looking pretty, but she did not voice them. It was time to enlist George's aid. He had promised to assist her in helping and encouraging her sister to overcome her dread of the beau monde.

When George and Bertram appeared on their doorstep that afternoon, she blatantly wangled an invitation to drive out with the former.

“I shall not need to hide myself under a rug today,” she announced gaily, twirling before them. Her pelisse of cerulean blue lutestring parted to reveal a tantalising glimpse of white jaconet and pale blue flounces. She had practised before a mirror.

She caught a look of dismay, quickly hidden, on Bertram's face as he turned to Claire and saw her still in her shabby, outdated costume. He was all politeness as he begged for the pleasure of her company, but enthusiasm was lacking. With renewed determination, Lizzie allowed George to hand her into his curricle.

“Not the phaeton today?” she enquired.

“I had hoped to have the pleasure of your sister's company today and I thought to introduce her gradually to my driving skills.”

“Oh dear, I'm sorry,” said Lizzie guiltily, “but I have to talk to you. I daresay the curricle is better for that, as you will not need to concentrate so hard upon your horses.”

“True.” His lips twitched. “What is this matter on which you are so eager to consult me that you forced me to offer my services?”

“It is Claire. You saw her. She refuses to buy any new clothes. I am at my wits' end trying to find a way to persuade her without putting her on her guard.”

“On her guard?”

“Yes, I cannot think it right to tell her that Bertram means to offer for her lest he should not come up to scratch. Which he may very well not if she does not buy some pretty gowns!  He sets great store by such things, I believe.”

“What makes you think that Pomeroy means to offer for your sister?”  George was no longer in the least amused.

“I heard his sister telling you.”  Lizzie bit her lip. “I know I ought not to have listened but I could not help it, honestly.”

“And you feel that Claire will like the match?”

“Once she is better acquainted with him, how could she not? He is everything that is gentlemanly. At least, if he is an incorrigible flirt like you, I have not heard it?”

“No, he has never been in the petticoat line.”  George was uncommunicative.

“There is just one thing.” Lizzie hesitated, then plucked up courage and rushed on. “Who is Amaryllis?”

“That I am not at liberty to discuss. No, I mean it, Lizzie. This once you will just have to curb your curiosity. Let it suffice that she is no impediment to a match between Pomeroy and your sister.”

“Then it would be unconscionable to let a few yards of silk and satin stand in their way. Will you speak to her?”

George mused. “Yes, I think I see a way to approach the matter. You may not like it though, so I do not mean to tell you any more about it.”

“You are odious,” she said, but returned his grin with a pardonable feeling of smugness.

It was a balmy spring day, the lamb-like side of March in evidence once more. Daffodils and the Ton were both out in force. Lizzie was far more interested in the latter, and she noticed that they were not much less interested in her. They must suppose her to be George's latest flirt, she thought, until a disturbing thought crossed her mind.

Lady Caroline, fount of all wisdom, had also mentioned a staggering string of high flyers who had lived under his lordship's protection. It was alarmingly possible that those high-nosed matrons and decorous misses thought her a barque of frailty!

Just as she reached that conclusion, George said with satisfaction, “Ah, that is what I was looking for. Courtney!” He hailed a gentleman who was riding alongside a barouche wherein sat a plump middle-aged lady and a slender young one.

The gentleman rode up. “Winterborne, good to see you.”

George turned to Lizzie. “Miss Sutton, allow me to present the Honorable Archibald Courtney. Miss Sutton is Sir James's daughter, of Sutton Stables in Oxfordshire.”

Sir Archibald bowed. “Happy to make your acquaintance, Miss Sutton. Had a couple of good hunters from Sutton Stables.  Beg leave to present you to m'mother and sister.”

He signalled to the coachman driving the barouche, who pulled up alongside the curricle. The ladies were introduced, and Miss Courtney fluttered her eyelashes at George.

The press of traffic forced them to drive on after the exchange of a few words. Lizzie looked back and saw Lady Courtney muttering in her daughter's ear.  Warning her against George no doubt, she thought, and giggled.

George looked at her indulgently. “How much of that did you follow?” he asked.  “My choice of Courtney to present to you, when he was escorting his mother, indicated to those watching that you are a respectable female whom they need not scruple to know. Now the business will go faster.”

In the next hour, as they progressed slowly down the park and back again, Lizzie was made known to a bewildering number of strangers of both sexes and all ages. Despite George's stratagem the ladies tended to view her with a certain suspicion, but the gentlemen were sufficiently admiring to raise her spirits.

“It's amazing what a difference a new gown makes, isn't it?” she said as the curricle swung out of the park onto Oxford Street. “You will speak to Claire soon, will you not?”

A few minutes later they pulled up behind a carrier's cart which stood unattended at the front door of the Sutton's house. A rawboned horse stood patiently between the shafts, head hanging, and in the back was a large object of indeterminate shape, swathed in holland covers. The front door stood open and from it issued the hoarse sound of men's voices.

“Ah, they have arrived,” said George obscurely.

“What is it?  I am sure Claire has not ordered anything so enormous except her new greenhouse. I hope they have not delivered that here instead of to Bumble's Green!”

“I believe you will find it is a little house-warming present.”

“From you?  What is it?  It is certainly not little!”

“From me and Pomeroy. Come and see.”

One of the ubiquitous street urchins had appeared to hold the horses. George helped Lizzie down from the carriage and they went into the house. Two large men were wrestling a chair up the narrow stairway.

She clapped her hands.   “Famous!  It matches the ones we bought.”

“We felt it was unsporting to condemn the two of you to the elegant chairs while we lounged at ease.”

“It is very generous of you.” Suddenly Lizzie was doubtful. “I don't know if Claire will wish to accept such a handsome gift. I remember she said gloves were unexceptionable, but furniture...”

“You cannot suppose that Pomeroy would lend himself to anything not perfectly proper.”

“N-no, I suppose not.” She looked at him in indignation as he roared with laughter.  “I know that implies that I do not think the same of you. It is true, for I believe you might easily forget propriety if it interfered with generosity.”

He took her hand. “Only the fiddling niceties of propriety,” he said seriously. “I hope you know your reputation will always be safe with me.”

“Oh yes, and thank you so much for the chairs, dear George. Never fear, I shall persuade Claire that it would be the height of incivility to refuse them, so in future we shall all be comfortable together.”

George took his leave and Lizzie went to supervise the rearrangement of the back parlour. This took some time as her mind kept wandering.

She was not sure who perplexed her most.  The chairs were such a
solid
present. Of course the oddity of such a gift would not deter George if he thought it would be useful, but it seemed such an unlikely choice for a confirmed bachelor and womaniser. She would have expected something more frivolous.

And as for Bertram, he must consider himself as good as betrothed to Claire. Furniture was so very domestic.

She was glad when Claire came home to distract her from her reflections.

Chapter XII—George

George had no intention of tackling the delicate subject of Claire's shabby and outmoded dress in so public a place as Hyde Park. Another week passed, therefore, before an opportunity arose to speak to her privately.

One afternoon, Lord Pomeroy suggested to Lizzie that he should take her next day to the Royal Academy and Miss Linwood's Exhibition. Lizzie accepted with alacrity.

“I hope you will join us,” he said, turning to Claire.

“Thank you, but I must go to Bumble's Green tomorrow.  Mrs Copple writes that the materials for my greenhouse have been delivered, and I must be there to ensure that they build in the right place. There is no need to postpone your outing, though. I shall need Alfie but Molly can go with Lizzie.”

George spoke quickly, before Pomeroy could voice his evident discontent. “I should like to see your Bumble's Green house.  May I drive you there?”

Claire looked at him dubiously. “I shall leave early, there is nothing of interest, and I must be there all day.”

“I look forward to learning all about the construction of greenhouses,” he said glibly.

“What a rapper!” exclaimed Lizzie.

Claire laughed, but she accepted his offer.  “I am willing to condemn you to a day of tedium because the gig from the livery stables is both uncomfortable and exceeding slow,” she confessed. “I daresay it will take scarce half as long to get there with you driving, sir.”

George noted with some amusement that Pomeroy was looking daggers at him.

“I wager I can do it in a third the time of a hired gig,” the younger man said challengingly.

“But not tomorrow,” George pointed out, “since you are engaged to guide Lizzie's artistic education.”

“That does not matter,” said Lizzie, abandoning art without a second thought. “You ought to have a race. I will go with Bertram and Claire with you, George.”

This proposal united the gentlemen.

“Take a female on a curricle race?” Bertram said, horrified. “You must have windmills in your head, Lizzie.”

“Would it be so very unladylike?”

“Not merely unladylike but highly dangerous,” George explained.

“Oh, then if it is dangerous, you must not race after all. Are you a member of the Four-horse Club, Bertram?”

“No,” he growled.

“A race would not be fair then, for George is.  How odd, I had thought you a top sawyer too.”

“Pomeroy is most certainly a top sawyer,” George assured her. “To my knowledge he has been put up for membership more than once but has refused the honour.”

“Why?” asked Lizzie.

Lord Pomeroy looked harrassed. “Because I refuse to be seen wearing a waistcoat with inch-wide blue and yellow stripes!” he snapped. “I shall call for you tomorrow at eleven, Miss Elizabeth, if that suits you?  Good day, ma'am,” he said to Claire, and departed.

“Oh dear,” sighed Lizzie, “he is miffed at me and I do not even understand why.”

“Don't take it personally,” advised George.  “He simply transferred to you his annoyance with me.”

“Why should he be angry with you?” Claire asked in astonishment.

George silenced Lizzie with a glance.  “Perhaps he doubts his ability to best me in the race we shall not be holding,” he suggested.

“I wish I had never said anything about speed!”

“Do not tease yourself, my dear. Men are odd creatures indeed when it comes to a question of sporting prowess. What time do you wish to leave tomorrow, taking into account the superior speed of my curricle over the gig?”