What Lucinda Learned (9 page)

Ethelreda clucked in annoyance. Realizing that her cousin was seriously annoyed, Lucinda said placatingly, “But Mr. Stratton is not so very bad, is he?”

“He is not at all the sort of person Belle should be encouraging. He is nothing but a rake and everyone knows he is hanging out for a rich wife.”

“She does have her maid with her.”

“That girl,” snapped Mrs. Cleeson with unaccustomed asperity, “that girl couldn’t chaperon a mouse.”

Ethelreda was indeed put out and their meeting with Belle and Stratton was chilly and stilted. Mrs. Cleeson responded frostily to Miles’s flamboyant chatter and kept a disapproving eye on Belle. That young lady was obviously bursting with news that she could not impart under that inescapable regard.

However, as she touched her cheek to Lucinda’s in farewell, Belle murmured, “Come this afternoon,” and pressed her hand meaningfully.

Lucinda mistrusted that look in Belle’s blue eyes. She stared hard at Miss Ryland but met only a bland, guileless smile.

On their return home, Mrs. Cleeson found a letter with the Grantham crest awaiting her. She perused the thick cream sheets with many exclamations and rereadings.

“Here’s a coil, Lucinda. Amelia writes that she is called away. Her aunt Dorcas is taken ill. She is as old as the hills, my love, and quite gothic. Amelia hopes to return tomorrow, but in the meantime, she asks me to chaperon Belle and Patience at Almack’s! tonight.”

“I had forgot we are to go there this evening.”

“I have told you before, Lucinda, how important is the patronesses’ approval. I wish you will not go about saying that you have forgot you received vouchers.”

“I shall try to remember,” replied Lucinda demurely, not wanting to aggravate her cousin further. “We must go to the Granthams’ immediately after lunch. I wish now we had no afternoon engagements. But I must certainly speak to Sir Charles, and then to Belle and Patience. There are so many...”

Ethelreda fussed throughout the meal and when it was over instantly retired to her room to produce a handful of over-scribbled lists. She shuffled and emended them all the way to Cavendish Square.

On arrival, she asked for Sir Charles, but Lucinda was shown to the drawing room where Will and Patience were sitting together on a confidante. Patience blushed and Will leapt to his feet as Lucinda was announced.

“Goodness,” Lucinda said. “Do relax, you two. Who on earth did you think it was?”

“There you are!” Belle hurried in, her ankle apparently completely restored to normal. “Come upstairs right away, Cinda.”

But before they could leave, Sir Charles and Mrs. Cleeson entered.

Sir Charles bowed over Lucinda’s hand but his eyes were on Belle. “Belle, Mrs. Cleeson wishes to know if you and Patience would prefer to dine with her and Lucinda, before you go to Almack’s tonight?”

Belle affected to think. “Why, I believe I would prefer to dine here, you know. It would give us more time to, er, dress. What do you think, Patience?” Lucinda particularly mistrusted Belle’s air of innocent deliberation.

“What I should like to know,” said Patience, with a teasing look at her brother, “is why Charles says ‘when you go Almack’s,’ as though
he
were not going, too.”

Sir Charles glanced uneasily at Will. “It’s not that we are not going exactly...” he mumbled.

“We?” Belle cried, “What are you and Will up to?”

“Now, Belle, Grantham and I are just going out of Town for a while.”

“A mill! I know you, Will, you’re off to some dreadful prize-fight.”

“I believe you’re right, Belle. Look at their faces!” said Patience, laughing.

“No use trying to hide anything from you ladies,” said Charles ruefully. “But we aren’t abandoning you and it isn’t a ‘dreadful’ prize-fight. It’s a dashed important one.”

“Be back well in time to dance at Almack’s,” Will promised reassuringly. “Bring our gear with us, you know.”

“By Jove, yes. Can’t go to Almack’s without the proper rig.”

“Meet you there, ladies, before you’ve even had time to miss us.”

“Be certain you do.” Belle looked sideways at Sir Charles. “If you come too late, our cards will be completely filled and we shan’t be able to spare you a dance.”

“Miss Ryland,” Charles declared dramatically, “if I have to fight a duel to remove one of your partners, a waltz with you will be worth it.”

“That’s all very well,” Mrs. Cleeson interjected, looking up from her lists. “But you do remember, do you not, that the doors will be locked at eleven. Not even the Prince Regent is admitted after that.”

“We shan’t forget, Mrs. Cleeson. We shall have bags of time.”

“Well, we certainly haven’t.” She rose. “Patience, Belle, we shall call for you this evening. Will, Sir Charles, we shall await you at Almack’s. Come, Lucinda, we have calls to make.”

“Enjoy yourself at Almack’s, Lucinda dear,” Belle whispered as they kissed. “I have quite other fish to fry.” And Belle smiled seraphically at her. Lucinda hesitated, staring back at her friend.

“Come, Lucinda,” Ethelreda called again in growing impatience.

With a last look at Belle, Lucinda followed her cousin out. They made a number of calls and at last arrived at Lady Borely’s. As she munched tiny macaroons and sipped pale, straw-coloured tea, Lucinda’s thoughts were still with Belle.

What was that very unreliable girl planning? She placed no faith whatsoever in Belle’s discretion and she grew increasingly uneasy as the afternoon wore on.

Lady Borely’s teas were select affairs, but their precise observances of propriety and stately manners in no wise impeded the flow of gossip. Lucinda soon found herself joined by Miss Florinda Borely on the yellow sofa.

“And what did you think of the pictures at Somerset House, Miss Neville? Mrs. Cleeson told my mama you had been in attendance.”

Lucinda looked down at her tiny cup. She could not really recall what any of the pictures had looked like. “There were a great number of them,” she ventured at last.

“Oh, indeed! And such a squeeze! I vow I thought we should never win our way back to the door.”

“Many members of the ton were there.”

Miss Borely laughed tinklingly. “Quite so. I was much interested to see some of those present.” She looked meaningfully at Lucinda.

“Oh?” Miss Neville looked uncomprehendingly back.

Dramatically, Miss Borely lowered her voice. “As we were arriving, Mama met her dear friend Miss Barchester-Trump in the hall outside the Great Room. I was waiting with them when I heard footsteps from one of the side halls, coming from one of the rooms where there are
no exhibitions.
” She emphasized the last words.

Lucinda blinked at her.

“And who do you think it was? All flushed and panting?” She did not wait for an answer. “Lady Chloris dePoer!”

Lucinda’s gasp of surprise was all Miss Borely could have wished for.

“You may well stare,” she said in satisfaction. “For you know, she gives herself such airs—as though such things as vulgar assignations were far from her thoughts.” Florinda laughed mockingly.

“Assignations?” Lucinda’s cup rattled on the saucer.

“What else? Of course—” Miss Borely looked virtuous “—I should never have suspected such behaviour if the first person I set eyes upon in the Great Room had not been Richard Devereux! And what else could she have been doing outside the exhibition hall?” She sat back with a triumphant air and gave her attention to a pink marchpane sweetmeat.

“Did I hear you mention Richard Devereux?” Lady Borely leaned towards her daughter. “I believe we are shortly to expect an interesting announcement from that quarter.”

Miss Barchester-Trump, a thin, acidulated lady of uncertain years, nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes. I am, you must know, greatly in the confidence of a certain lady,” she declared, glancing round to gather everyone’s attention. Her listeners all looked knowing, except for Lucinda who was merely baffled. “I have it on the very best of authority—” Miss Barchester-Trump preened herself for a moment, then went on impressively “—that they are merely waiting for Lord dePoer to return from France to make a formal announcement.”

A buzz of conversation greeted this intelligence. “And you, Miss Neville...” Lady Borely looked closely at Lucinda. “I had at one time thought that you ... well, you did seem to be on terms of considerable intimacy with Mr. Devereux.”

Lucinda put down her cup. “I, Lady Borely? I?”

“Do not be upset, my dear. I realize I was quite mistaken.” Her ladyship tapped Lucinda playfully with her fan. “For I see now that you had quite other intentions. We shall soon be hearing another interesting announcement, I don’t doubt.”

Lucinda flushed scarlet, but fortunately some of the guests were now leaving and Lady Borely and Florinda rose to receive their farewells. Thankfully, Lucinda went to sit beside Mrs. Cleeson for the duration of their visit.

Later, on the way home, Lucinda said, “What was Lady Borely hinting at, cousin Ethelreda?”

Mrs. Cleeson gave her a searching look. “Well, it has been rather remarked, Lucinda dearest.”

“What has, cousin?”

“That you are much in Will’s company.”

“Oh!” To her chagrin Lucinda found herself flushing again.

“You do not need to be upset, dearest. After all, it is not unknown for childhood friends to discover they are becoming something closer.” Mrs. Cleeson patted her charge’s hand.

In confusion, Lucinda gazed out at the London streets. She had not told Mrs. Cleeson of her secret engagement and was curiously taken aback to find that her cousin and at least Lady Borely suspected an understanding. She was glad when the carriage drew up at Agincourt Circle and Mrs. Cleeson hurried her upstairs to rest.

“You must be in your best looks tonight, you know, for it will be your first appearance at Almack’s,” her cousin reminded her before retiring for her own nap.

Lucinda thought about crying off that evening. After all she had no use for the Marriage Mart. She knew a rebellious urge to fly in the face of convention, which only turned her thoughts to Belle and all her worries about her friend returned. She kicked off her shoes and lay down on the bed.

Disturbing recollections of Belle’s past escapades flashed through her mind. In Nether Wilden these had been indulgently regarded as a mere excess of high spirits. But Lucinda knew the reaction would not be so tolerant in Town, and she was dreadfully afraid that Belle was plotting something.

She glanced up and saw that Emmie had propped a letter up on her dressing-table. It must have been , delivered when she was out. She reached over and snatched it up. But her face fell as she read it.

She had written earlier to Mr. Bunthorpe, enquiring as to the progress of Freddie Simms, the boy she and Mr. Devereux had taken to the hospice. Now Mr. Bunthorpe had responded, presenting his compliments and begging leave to inform Miss Neville that Mr. Devereux had taken care of the matter.

“Whatever that means,” Lucinda muttered, dropping the single sheet, and immediately fell back to fretting over Belle.

She lay down again, but she could not rest. She picked up a book but was unable to concentrate. Finally, she sat up and rang the bell. When Emmie appeared, Lucinda sent her to order the coach.

CHAPTER TEN

The night of
the Vernissage, Richard Devereux sat in his library. There was a glass of sherry in his hand and a tray of plain biscuits and walnuts beside him. His gleaming Hessians were planted firmly on the fender of the Italian marble fireplace and his gaze was fixed above on the painting by Stubbs.

It showed two horses being led out of the stable. Mr. Devereux had owned the picture for some ten years now and he had been staring steadily at it for the past half hour. It would have been a safe wager, however, that once interrupted, he could not have said what he was so intently regarding.

“Hope I don’t disturb you, neffy.”

Devereux brought his feet down with a thump. “Ivor!”

“Told Larrigan I’d announce myself. In a brown study, eh?”

“I was thinking,” Richard said with dignity, sitting straighter in his chair.

“Oh, aye, aye. I don’t doubt it. Marriage takes a bit of thought, after all.”

“Much you know about it,” his nephew responded tartly. He turned to pour a drink for Ivor and so did not see that his uncle’s colour had darkened.

“Ah, well, Ricky,” he said with excessive heartiness, “live and learn, you know, live and learn.”

Dev handed him the glass and came back to his seat. “Haven’t seen much of you recently, Ivor.” He recalled Charles’s remark. “Been spending a lot of time at Agincourt Circle, have you?”

“Harrumph!” Ivor drank deeply. “Now, now, my boy. No harm in visiting a lady—old friend, you know, lots to catch up on.”

“I didn’t know you had any lady friends, old or otherwise. Not much in the petticoat line, didn’t you say?”

“Dash it all, Ricky! Don’t take a fellow up so sharp.” He took another gulp. “Damme if I don’t think you’re getting more like your father every day. And a dashed nasty tongue he had, too.”

Dev laughed. “What a crushing thing to say, Ivor—to compare me to my late and quite unlamented sire.”

“Well, I don’t say you’re entirely like him, but you want to take care, my boy.”

“I shall watch myself for any such signs.”

“You do that. But tell me, Ricky, how are matters progressing with the fair Chloris?”

“Have you a wager on it, dear uncle?”

“Bet you wouldn’t go through with it.” Ivor answered so promptly and shamelessly that Dev was forced to laugh again. “But I don’t mind dropping a few guineas, provided you’re satisfied.”

“Ivor,” said Dev, moved, “that is uncommonly handsome of you and in return I shall tell you that I have not made any offer to anyone as yet.”

“Can’t screw your courage to the sticking-point?” Ivor grinned and poured himself another drink. “Ought to ask Charles for advice. He’s made no secret of his affection for the Ryland chit.” He wriggled his back reminiscently. “Dashed fine-looking girl but a bit on the hefty side.”

Dev smiled. “I saw him at Somerset House this afternoon. I’m surprised they didn’t snatch him up to model for the life classes—some of his poses deserve to be immortalized.”

“You, at the Vernissage? Ethelreda didn’t mention seeing you.”

“I didn’t know Mrs. Cleeson, and I suppose Miss Neville, were there.”

“In the thick of it, from what I hear.”

Dev’s attention had apparently returned to his Stubbs and the even tenor of his voice did not vary as he remarked, “From what I hear, there will be another marriage in the Ryland family.”

“Lucinda and the young fellow, you mean?”

“So I’ve heard.”

“They’ve known each other forever, so I collect,” Ivor said, frowning. “Ethelreda says it’s common for such close acquaintances to change their feelings. But I don’t know, they don’t strike me as nutty on each other.”

“No?” Dev had risen and now stood with his back to Ivor as though to get a closer view of the
painted
horses. “They seem much in each other’s company.”

“Whole crew of ’em go about together—Ryland and his sister, Charles and his sister and Lucinda.”

“Well then, Ivor, are we to expect an announcement soon?”

Ivor jerked his hand back from the biscuit tray and sent his glass tottering. He caught it just in time. “Here, steady on, Ricky. What do you mean by springing a question like that on a fellow?”

Dev turned and raised his eyebrow. “But, Ivor, I merely enquired if we are to expect an announcement of an engagement between young Ryland and Miss Neville. That is what we are discussing, is it not?”

“Oh,
that.
None planned that I know of. Ethelreda has some doubts that the gel’s fixed her interest in that way. The coming-out ball’s to take place shortly and Jasper Neville’s due in Town for that. Ryland will have to speak to him, and from what Ethelreda says, he’s dashed protective of his only chick.”

Mr. Devereux resumed his seat and sprawled at his ease. “Have you dined yet, Ivor?”

“No, but I just dropped in—”

“Then you must dine with me.” He touched the bell pull. “And I shall tell Larrigan to bring up several bottles of the burgundy you are so fond of.”

“Thankee, neffy, thankee. But what’s the occasion?”

Dev smiled seraphically. “Let’s just say, my dear uncle, that it is because I am so very glad to see you.”

Mr. Devereux
rose earlier than was his wont the next morning. However, Dowsett remained unperturbed even when his master requested him to send a footman for a hackney.

After a quick breakfast then, Devereux leapt into the coach and ordered the driver to make for the Isle of Dogs. As he went through the gates of the hospice, he could hear the happy shouts of children sporting on the grass. He paid the hackney driver, then stood for a moment to watch them.

Their faces were bright, but he noted their thin bodies and pale cheeks. He was frowning when he finally went inside to meet Mr. Bunthorpe.

“How many children do you have here now?” he asked after the formalities had been exchanged.

“Counting your young Master Simms, there are five at present.”

“And their ailments?”

“Two are accident victims and the others...” Mr. Bunthorpe continued with a sigh, “their parents call it the ‘wasting fever.’ I should say it is a combination of insufficient food, unsanitary conditions and too much responsibility too soon.”

“It is damnable!” Devereux burst out. “More must be done!”

“I cannot argue with you there. But we are making progress. This hospice is one sign. Your interest and the interest of other persons of station and property is another.”

“It seems so little.”

“Perhaps. But I must mention that we hope also to persuade the government to act. There is some talk of an enquiry into the workings of the Poor Laws. Reform in that line would be of inestimable value in work such as ours.”

“There I can be of some assistance, for in that area I have some influence.”

“Any increase in awareness would be a blessing.”

“We shall speak more of this, Mr. Bunthorpe. But now, tell me how my young friend does.”

“He is in better pin, but again, rest, good food, clean air help him now. But to what shall we send him back?”

“There, too,” Devereux said with decision, “I may be of use. May I see him?”

“Certainly.” Mr. Bunthorpe consulted his watch. “He should just be finishing some milk and bread now. Let me take you to him.”

They went along a stone path bordered by red geraniums to where a spreading elm shaded the river bank. Seated on a blanket, the children were holding tin mugs and plates. A blue-coated attendant was handing put thick slabs of buttered bread.

Mr. Bunthorpe greeted him politely and asked if Master Simms could be excused. The attendant smiled and gestured to a freckle-faced, round-eyed boy.

“This is Mr. Devereux, Freddie,” the warden said. “He would like to speak to you. Perhaps you might sit on the bench.” He gestured to an old wooden seat a little farther off.

Freddie cast a wary look at his visitor and rather reluctantly rose. He did, however, manage to snaffle a thick slice before trailing after Devereux. Chewing steadily, he sat rather suspiciously at the far end of the seat.

“It weren’t my fault,” he said automatically.

“No,” agreed Dev calmly.

Freddie’s eyes grew rounder and he masticated more slowly. “I couldn’t help it.”

“I was entirely at fault. I must beg you to forgive me.”

Freddie was so surprised he forgot to chew. He stared unwinkingly at Mr. Devereux, swallowed convulsively and said, “That’s all right, then.”

“You are not a London man?” Devereux asked conversationally.

“How’d you know?”

“You sound more like someone from my part of the country.”

“Are you from Dorset then, sir?”

“Devon, actually.”

“Ah.” Freddie nodded knowledgeably. “My pa were in Devon once.”

“That was before you came to London?”

“Us only came to Lunnon three months ago.”

“And do you like it?” Devereux asked carefully, keeping all emotion from his voice.

Freddie’s face clouded. “It’s fine,” he mumbled, “us be doing fine.”

Mr. Devereux took a deep interest in a scull on the river. “Oh?” he said. “I asked, you know, because I had a suggestion to make.”

Freddie studied the boat also. He finished the last of his milk and, eyes still on the river, said with elaborate disinterest, “What be that, sir?”

“I have a house in Devon and I am in need of some help.”

“Truly?” Freddie’s pose of indifference vanished. “You’re not just bamming me?”

“No, Freddie,” he replied gently. “I am quite serious. Tell me, what is your father’s work?”

“He’s a farm hand, sir—a prime shepherd. He knows everything about sheep. But his old master, he decided to rent out his land and there weren’t work for Pa anymore.”

“So you came to London?”

“Us heard there’s work for everyone in Lunnon.”

“And has your pa found work?” Dev’s voice was even more gentle.

“He has that, in one of them man-u-factories. But—” Freddie blinked rapidly “—it’s too hard, sir. My mam says so and he coughs now, all the time. My mam says he’s got to get some good Dorchester air.”

Devereux rested his hand briefly on the boy’s thin shoulder and tactfully ignored the stifled sob. “I expect your mam is perfectly right and I promise that when Mr. Bunthorpe says you are well, you shall all travel to Devon together.”

“And live in the country again?” At Dev’s answering nod, a wide grin spread across Freddie’s freckled face. “Why, sir, that’s... that’s
prime
.”

Mr. Devereux was smiling when he left the hospice and summoned a hackney. But his smile dimmed as he came nearer to his destination. The driver looked dubious as he paid him off and strode down the filthy, narrow street.

It was not the first time Devereux had visited such areas and, as always, a cold anger seized him as he hastened on. The air was foetid here, but he did not reach for a handkerchief and he allowed no hint of his feelings to show upon his face.

Freddie had given him careful directions, so there must be an alley here. Yes, though “alley” was perhaps too grand a word for such a wretched opening. But here was the door Freddie had described. It was distinguished from its neighbours only by a lack of debris in front. He knocked and the door was opened by a thin, grey-haired woman in a neat apron.

“Mrs. Simms?” he asked. “I am Richard Devereux. I’ve just come from visiting Freddie.”

A look of near panic crossed her weary face. “Oh, sir, Freddie’s a good boy. I’m sure he never meant no harm.”

“I know that, Mrs. Simms. I have not come to complain. May I come in?”

Mutely, Mrs. Simms gestured him into the one room. It obviously functioned as kitchen, dining room and bedroom. It was plainly, indeed sparsely, furnished. But it was clean and extremely neat. Mrs. Simms took one straight wooden chair and Devereux the only other.

“You don’t blame Freddie, then?” she asked, as though hesitant to believe him.

“It was altogether my fault,” he repeated firmly. “So I have come to offer you what recompense I may.”

“I’m sure Simms and I don’t want any such thing, sir.”

“But it would be a great help to me if you accepted and I’m persuaded it would be good for Freddie.”

“Freddie?” Mrs. Simms’s drawn face lightened.

“And for your husband, who I believe,” he added gently, “is not well.”

Her shoulders sagged. “No,” she said dully, “he’s not.”

“Then,” Devereux went on in the same tone, “I wonder if you and your family would consider working for me. I have estates in Devon and we are always looking for reliable workers.”

“Oh, sir!” Mrs. Simms’s face was transformed. “Do you mean, go back to the country?” Her words echoed her son’s.

“If you would, Mrs. Simms.”

“Oh, sir!” Overcome, she reached out and grasped his hand. “That I would!”

Dev disentangled his hand. He reached into his pocket and placed a fat purse on the scrubbed wooden table. “You will have expenses to cover when you remove to Devon, so pray accept this—” he looked at Mrs. Simms “—shall we say as an advance, to ease your way.”

Mrs. Simms blinked rapidly, then mastered herself. “I—I can’t say what this means to us, sir. And Simms!” She smiled, suddenly looking years younger. “Ah, sir, what’ll Simms say when he hears! Now,” she said, bustling over to some uneven shelves. “You’ll take some refreshment, I hope?”