Althea (11 page)

“Oh, as soon as I made my first appearance before the
ton
Maria stopped tutoring me. I am now to rise or fall on my own. Although I
regret to say that I misdoubt Banders will ever treat me as an adult. I must
not mind that.”

“Your generosity knows no bounds, ma’am. I honor you. You
enjoy Fielding? Who else do you favor with your patronage? If you really are a
bluestocking, as you claim, you most recommend me some reading.”

The remainder of the trip was spent in a lively discussion
of literature. Althea was pleased — although not very surprised — to find that
Sir Tracy’s cynical nature did not preclude a broad interest in literature, and
a well-informed mind. He had read classics at University, “a fact I try hard
enough to hide, since erudition of a serious sort is as little regarded in a
gentleman of fortune as it is in a young lady of seventeen — or three and
twenty.”

“Your impersonation of a fop had me entirely fooled. I was
convinced you had not two ideas to rub against each other,” Althea said
wickedly.

By the time they reached Danning Hall, far in advance of the
others of the party, they had covered the more current authors and were deep in
an argument over the respective merits of the Greek and Roman playwrights:
Althea held staunchly for the Greeks, while Tracy defended the Romans.

At Danning they were greeted by Mr. Pendarly’s cousin Mrs.
Abbot, a lively, pretty, stupid woman with a warmhearted manner and no sense
that Althea could discern. After pressing them to come see her house, a manor
cottage indistinguishable from the common run of such edifices, she offered
them seats in the garden, and tried to encourage polite gossip and chatter upon
such topics as the weather, dress, and flowers, and children. Tracy,
inexperienced with the last and uninterested in the first, soon wandered away.
Althea found then, to her embarrassment, that Mrs. Abbot began to discuss her
cousin Edward in the fondest, most flattering of terms, obviously with an eye
toward making a match. The assumption on her hostess’s part that a match could
be made in no way encouraged Althea’s feelings, and it was a distinct relief to
her when Pendarly’s curricle, with the sharp, peering countenance of Miss
Agatha Tidd, came sedately up the drive.

Very shortly thereafter the Fforyding barouche arrived and
the party was complete. Mr. Pendarly luckily was able to dissuade his cousin
from her fixed notion of displaying the peculiarities of Danning Hall to the
guests, explaining that he had so extolled the beauty of the grounds that he
doubted anyone in the group could be persuaded to enter indoors. The party
moved in a desultory fashion across the green, Miss Fforyding and Mr. Tidd
choosing to become involved in an observation of the statuary, and Lord
Fforyding and his betrothed finding it convenient to rest under a willow
situated out of the common path. This left Mr. Pendarly and his cousin, Miss
Tidd, Althea, and Sir Tracy to walk down the path toward the lake.

Since their arrival Miss Tidd had made some efforts to
attach herself to Sir Tracy, since Mr. Pendarly had not, outside of common
civility, shown the least interest in her fatuous ramblings. As their group
approached the water, Sir Tracy found that not only was Miss Tidd attempting to
fix his interest, but that Mrs. Abbot was equally determined to foster it. She
suggested that Sir Tracy might be interested in seeing the rest of the topiary
in the garden just beyond the bend in the path, or failing that, perhaps the
boathouse. Sir Tracy considered being rude by simply refusing to do either, but
Althea happened to cast a glance at him — a glance full of enjoyment — and he
stiffly offered his arm to Miss Tidd and started up the path toward the
topiary. Mrs. Abbot then discovered that she had left her reticule back at the
house; she must go and fetch it at once. She turned and hurried up the walk,
the forgotten reticule flapping against her skirts. Althea would have laughed,
but she saw the pained expression on Pendarly’s face and forebore.

“I apologize for my cousin’s want of manners, ma’am,” he
said stiffly.

“Not a want of manners so much as a superfluity of goodness,
and a real affection for you, I should think. It really was rather funny. . .
.” She began to giggle, but as Pendarly was apparently unable to appreciate the
humor of the situation, Althea began to quiet herself, and had succeeded to a
nicety when the memory of Calendar’s face as he had been dragged up the path by
the ambitious Miss Tidd sent her into a gale of laughter.

“Only think,” she gasped when she had some breath to speak
with, “only think of poor Calendar’s expression when Miss Tidd finally
inveigled him into a walk in the topiary! Oh lord!” The laughter tumbled out
again and Mr. Pendarly began to smile.

“But I collect that I must have looked much the same when
she appointed me her driver. That woman has the most appalling manner — she
spent the entire trip here detailing to me her beaux and her bonnets.” Pendarly
joined in Althea’s laughter awkwardly.

“You know that you looked no such way. Sir Tracy is spoiled,
used to having his own way in everything, particularly, I imagine, where women
are concerned. When he cannot charm them, or charm his way from them, and has
not the brazenness to be rude — no, I correct that — I think he has the
brazenness and that Miss Tidd would never have noticed it. When he is foiled,
he will sulk like a child. You are too good-natured for that.” In justice to
Tracy, he had not precisely sulked — although what else she could call the
ferocious scowl he had worn Althea did not know.

“I am not schooled to hide everything,” Pendarly was saying
softly, with a look that made Althea blush. “I am sure you know that I could
never hide everything from
you
.” What Pendarly’s intended disclosure was
Althea would not know, for Miss Tidd and Sir Tracy were returning from one
direction and Mrs. Abbot from the other. The glares on the faces of Miss Tidd
and Sir Tracy plainly expressed their mutual displeasure. Pendarly cast a
rueful glance at Althea and rose to take Miss Tidd’s arm.

From this time on the party became more general. Sophia and
Mr. Tidd arrived from somewhere, both blushing and speechless, and Lord Fforyding
appeared some minutes afterward with Miss Westleid on his arm. The rest of the
visit was spent in examining the boathouse, which was very like almost every
boathouse any of the party had ever seen; in a visit to the ruins, built five
years before to make the property more picturesque; and finally, in the
nuncheon set out on the lawn before the house.

After the nuncheon everyone sat about feeling pleased, with
himself if not with the party at large. At length Lord Fforyding announced that
it was time they started back for town. Again there was the problem of who
would return with whom, or really, who was to bear the responsibility for Miss
Tidd. Althea reflected that it was fortunate that Jonathan Tidd was so taken
with Sophia Fforyding, else he might have been hurt by his aunt’s behavior and
the treatment it occasioned.

The matter was settled at last. Sir Tracy, acting,
apparently out of some twinge of conscience, offered to drive Miss Tidd to
town, but the lady declined his offer icily, stating her reluctance to ride
with anyone as top-lofty as he. She fastened herself instead to Pendarly’s arm,
considering it better to take her chances with one who could be depended upon
to be passably civil. She cast a pitying eye on Althea as she mounted the
curricle.

“What on earth passed between you and Miss Tidd in the
topiary?” Althea inquired of Tracy when they had driven a mile or so from
Danning.

“I was finally forced to observe to her — after she had hung
on my sleeve in the most shocking manner — that I could no longer permit her to
do so, for she would throw a crease into my coat, and not all my respect for
her sex could permit me to allow that. It had an effect that was little short
of miraculous: suddenly she was able to support her own weight quite easily; she
delivered herself of a prodigious sigh and stalked off ahead of me.”

“Poor woman. She has made herself universally disliked, I
fear, and then to have you say such a cutting thing to her. I do not wonder
that she opted to drive back with Mr. Pendarly.”

“Which is where you should be, I collect,” Calendar said
quietly.

“Have I made a complaint, sir? I hope it does not incommode
you too seriously to have me as your passenger rather than Miss Tidd. Do I
imagine you would have preferred her blandishments to mine?”

“Infinitely. But I have lost her good will forever, I fear.”

“And serves you right, you dreadful, unpleasant man. How
does one have a serious conversation with you? Or do you eschew serious
conversations altogether?”

“No, not at all. I thought that was the privilege of your
sex.”

“Doubly odious.”

Calendar raised his eyebrow. “I’m sorry you think so.”

“Well, sir,” Althea said firmly, “we have exhausted
literature. What else have we left? Music? Art? Politics? Aesthetics? And after
we exhaust those, we shall have to give up our acquaintance, since there will
be no more we can discuss. I leave the matter to you.” Althea settled back
comfortably and observed how the countryside sped by the wheels of the phaeton
— at an alarming rate.

“I don’t understand why your sister has been in town these
four or five years now, and yet you never appeared until this spring,” Tracy
said at length.

Althea looked up in mild surprise. “That was hardly one of
the topics I suggested to you, sir.”

“You will answer it just the same, will you not?”

“I suppose I shall. But a real explanation would tire you
dreadfully — it has to do with my mother’s family, and the state of our estate,
and my father, and my wretched brother, and — oh, enough to fill a romance, and
all of it boring.”

“I will endure the boredom if you think that is what it will
take,” Calendar said equably. “Are you cold? There is a rug behind you if you
wish it.”

“Thank you, I am fine.” Althea considered again, then began
her story. “You see, my grandfather’s wife died —”

“I am desolated to hear of it, ma’am,” Calendar said
gravely.

“You needn’t be! She died in the year 1763. So then he
married my grandmother —”

“Who thus became your grandfather’s wife. Fascinating.
Please go on.”

Althea restrained an impulse to box the gentleman’s ears and
continued with an air of impervious serenity. “He wed my grandmother, who was
Lady Anne Kendon. Their daughter was my mother, Lady Dorothea Merrit. She
married my father — ?’

“A most fortunate circumstance,” Calendar drawled blandly.

“You brought this upon yourself, you know, and I am not
going to curtail the story simply because you have not the patience to hear it
through. The point to this genealogy is that her title descended from her to my
sister Maria. Mary was only sixteen when Mama died, and the fuss she made about
precedence was dreadful: I was only thirteen, and a wretched beanpole with
freckles and no countenance, and Mary had always had gold hair and china eyes
and been the prettiest thing, and now she was a ladyship! She became quite
insufferable.”

“This is all interesting, but what is it to the point?”

“I am coming to it. Do please endeavor to learn a little
patience. When Mary was seventeen my Aunt Barbara invited her to town. I
suppose that she thought it would not hurt to be hostess to a pretty niece who
had some little money. So Mary went, and met Francis, and they were married. A
very simple story, if I leave out all the nonsense that passed before they
finally did marry! As for myself, I was never appealing enough, or conciliatory
enough for Aunt Babs to take up. And Papa and Merrit — my odious brother — did
need someone to look after the house for them. You cannot imagine a greater
pair of gudgeons. I really wonder how affairs at Hook Well are managing these
days. It was not until I took it upon myself to escape that I had been out of
the county.”

“Probably a very wise thing. One question more, then. Who is
this Aunt Barbara of yours who caviled at your presence?”

“Lady Shelbering. She married Shelbering some ten years ago
— having disposed of three husbands previously. Aunt Babs is something of a
family fixture. She does not go about so much among the
ton
these days,
but to hear her speak, in the old days she quite made and broke fashion,”

“Not quite so important as that, but I remember her. The
most insipid, sly old woman — but I should not be speaking so of your family.
Forgive me.”

“Why not? I assure you that I have very little good to say
about most of my family, and no one in the family has anything good to say for
Aunt Babs, except for Mary, and that is only to be expected. But must we really
speak of my fatiguing relatives?”

“What do you think of music, then?” Tracy surrendered.

“As a topic or an art?” Althea challenged.

Within five minutes they were again deep in discussion. They
clashed cheerfully for the remainder of the ride over their taste in music.

“I conclude,” Calendar said sometime later, “that you are
not so much unappreciative as untaught. It is a mercy you did not stay in the
country any longer than you did, or your ideas might be even more outlandish.”

“You shall not quiz me and escape unscathed. But you must on
no account tell Maria that I have been speaking as an intelligent person — that
would throw her into a panic. She insists that men like their wives sweet and
amiable and stupid, and that it is the first business of our lives to be
wives.”

“Your tone is quite evangelical,” Tracy scolded her gently.

Althea continued in a smaller voice. “You will pardon the
outburst. And I will say that while I don’t approve of your taste for Italian
music, I am glad to find you have some thoughts on the matter.”