Elisabeth Kidd (26 page)

She had taken to the floor this time with her Uncle Philip, a partner
ship prompted by the glum look on Mr Kenyon’s face as he watched
Imogen Curtiz and Lord Alvanley enjoying a comfortable chat in front of
one of the mirrors lining the ballroom. Antonia had dropped a sympa
thetic kiss on his cheek and pointed out that if they were to glance into
the mirror, they would see him scowling at them. Mr Kenyon morosely
assured her that they were far too cosy to take any notice of him. Antonia choked back a smile and, to divert him from his melancholy mood, asked
him to take the floor with her.

This exercise seemed to give him courage, and at the end of the set he escorted Antonia firmly over to the mirror in question, where they
discovered Viscount Kedrington to have usurped Lord Alvanley’s place
and to be sharing Mrs Curtiz’s amusement at the activities of several of
the other guests.

“Oh, look!” Imogen exclaimed. “How diverting! Cloris has at last run Charles to earth, after stalking him all evening. I wish we may hear what
they are saying.”

Antonia scowled, as much at Imogen’s inelegant metaphor as Cloris’s
behaviour—but watching Charles, she had to smile at his predicament.

Charles, who had been excessively pleased with himself that every
thing seemed to be going so well, was, until all hope of escape had
passed, blissfully unaware of his peril. Of course, he thought, it was
impossible for everyone not to like little Isabel, and he ought to be
pleased solely for her sake, but he would be less than honest if he did not acknowledge that he was pleased for himself as well. Such a splendid
gathering!

It was then that he had smiled benevolently at Miss Beecham, who was watching him from over her partner’s shoulder. Cloris had
winked at him, but whirled quickly out of sight in the last measure of the
dance, so that she was unaware of the comical look of astonishment that
had crossed Charles’s face.

“Do you not dance, Mr Kenyon?” she had asked, boldly approaching
him a moment later.

“I fear I am an indifferent dancer, Miss Beecham,” he replied.

“How clever of you to say so!” was Miss Beecham’s unexpected rejoinder. “I myself simply refuse to learn things at which I will never be
more than mediocre. A reputation for honesty, I find, is
much
more valuable
than a clumsy talent at watercolouring or playing the harpsichord—such
genteel
accomplishments, are they not?—and how much easier to say,
‘No, I do not play’ than to struggle through
The Creation
, which I never
admired. Do you admire Haydn, Mr Kenyon?”

Mr Kenyon replied warily that he did not, causing Miss Beecham to
burst into laughter. Fortunately, Mr Chatham-Hill and Oliver Beecham
arrived at that moment in response to Cloris’s request, made an hour
earlier, for a glass of punch.

Taking advantage of this diversion, Charles
made his excuses and escaped into one of the card rooms, where he found Lady Sefton and the Worthings engaged in a round of three-
handed whist. They immediately captured him to make a fourth and, to
the detriment of their mutual chaperoning duties, he accepted and
descended, still somewhat shaken by his encounter with Miss Beecham,
into the chair they indicated to him.

In the meanwhile, Antonia found herself deserted by her Uncle Philip
and Mrs Curtiz, but not by Lord Kedrington, whom she had already
refused a dance and with whom she was making less than brilliant
conversation in the hope that he would become discouraged and leave
her before she said something indiscreet—an all-too-likely result of any
exchange with him. She might have known he would not take the hint.

“I met your niece and Octavian yesterday in Gunter’s,” he said, “where
they were sampling the fruit ices under the guise of deciding upon
refreshments for the ball, and she told me it was your notion. About a separate dinner party, that is.”

“No, strictly speaking, it was Imogen’s idea.”

“In any case, it was an excellent plan. Mrs Curtiz seems inadvertently to have hit upon a novel new entertainment, which my Aunt Hester has named a roundabout, if you please.”

“Whatever are you talking about?”

He laughed. “You know, it is all very well to talk of giving yourself up
to a life of dissipated pleasures, but I must tell you that you will be much
more convincing if you are able to recognise them when they present themselves. Surely you are aware that half the season’s aspirants to
fashion have been going about wearing only one ear ornament since
you —unintentionally, as you say—did so, and I am certain that tomorrow
they will all be wearing lilies in their hair and giving roundabouts.”

“What nonsense!”

“Agreed. But you may as well take the credit, for denying it will be of
no use to you—or to your niece’s career.”

She looked up at him through narrowed eyes. “Do not imagine, my
lord, that by clothing every piece of advice you wish to give me in Isabel’s
name you will make it any the more acceptable to me.”

He was not at all put out by her severity. “But you are at least taking
my advice to heart, however unwillingly.”

When that coaxed a reluctant smile out of her, he was emboldened to
pursue his advantage. “If you will forgive another observation, my heart,
you are beginning to think before you speak. It is too bad.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she said coolly, if somewhat
repetitiously.

“You once told me that you always act on your scruples—and on your
whims.”

He thought she remembered the occasion, but she did not say so. “Can you repeat every foolish thing I ever said to you, my lord? I shall have to
be on my guard.”

“I remember every word, but precisely to keep you off your guard, which is a most unattractive position for you.”

“I should call it, rather, behaving like the lady I am purported to be.”

“Who is practising London manners now, Miss Fairfax?”

She did not pretend to have forgotten that, but gave him a fulminating
look and, in her most scrupulously precise accents, begged him to forgive
her if she attended to her other guests now. He made no attempt to stop
her as she rose and moved gracefully, if with some effort to achieve that
grace, away. Fortunately, Miss Coverley was sending eager signals from
across the room, so Antonia made her way in that direction, to be swept
away on Miss Coverley’s excitedly breathless prose.

“Oh, my dear—there you are! My, what a whirl it is! My head fairly
spins! All the young people look so handsome tonight, all dancing
... Oh look, there is your niece dancing again with Mr Gary! What a
pretty pair they make. Kedrington is quite right, you know—it would be
a pity if that did not come off.”

Antonia frowned, conscious once again that she was not being confided in, that events were happening without her being aware of them.

“Oh, please do not be offended, my dear. I am an interfering old lady
who delights in watching the progress of a promising
affaire
, but I assure
you neither my dear Duncan nor I would dream of trying to influence
either
parti
, and we are both perfectly aware of Mr Gary’s position. Oh,
yes, all the Garys are as poor as church mice.... One of them is. A
pastor, that is to say. Now is it Arthur or Alfred?

“Well, no matter.... There is some money in the family, of course, in Octavian’s uncle’s estate, and it
will go to Neil one day. That is, if Neil’s stubbornness does not prove
stronger than Junius’s, who will doubtless cut Neil off without a penny if he marries his Popish sweetheart to spite him. Not that there is much hope of his getting around her father, either.... Oh, my dear, you must not let me ramble on so, of matters in which you can have no interest!

“Look, there is Mr Kenyon, who keeps looking your way—I am certain he
will ask you to dance if only I were to step aside and allow him to do
so.
...
“

And so the dances went on—the lively mazurkas, the dashing ecossaises,
the waltzes. But before long, supper was being served in the long room
that faced the ballroom from the upper level, which began to fill with guests taking a respite from the dancing. Although the evening was far
from over, it seemed now to take a turn to a more intimate mood, so that when the second supper was served at two o’clock, the remaining guests felt so at ease with one another that it was a kind of family party which
gathered in the long room.

Philip Kenyon put his feet up on a sofa and ate peas with a spoon and an elegant air which made Cloris Beecham laugh and encourage him to
other absurdities. Miss Coverley had dug a needle and thread out of her reticule and was mending Oliver Beecham’s glove and shaking her head
over the carelessness of young men with their belongings. Oliver squirmed
loose as soon as he was able, and Hester turned her admonitions on her
nephew, who, she informed Antonia, had been as mischievous a child as
she had ever known.

“His tutor once gave him a catapult, you know. He was only six at the
time—Duncan was, I mean, not Mr Widdington, and—”

The viscount interrupted. “I have already regaled Miss Fairfax with
that tale, Aunt. You will have to come up with something new.”

Charles and Mrs Curtiz, in unusually congenial unity, drank tea
together. Octavian Gary stood in a corner, watching Isabel with a quiet
smile and a warm look that would not have pleased Charles had he
observed it. Antonia was watching Isabel, who was pretending to read a newspaper clipping Harley Chatham-Hill had given her concerning the
entry of the new Duke of Wellington into Toulouse. She looked up when
Oliver Beecham, taking no interest in Toulouse, recalled that there was
to be a balloon ascent the next Sunday in front of Burlington House and
suggested that Isabel might like to see it.

“Oh, yes!” she exclaimed. “That is, if Antonia says I may.”

Antonia suggested that Isabel’s friends might like to make a party of it,
and since no one wanted to be left out, they all agreed to the plan with
enthusiasm and immediately began to think of other, even more enjoy
able things they might do together. The conversation once again became
very animated, and Philip Kenyon, as if to disassociate himself from such
exhausting talk, put a cushion over his head and sank further into the
sofa. Miss Coverley, who was able to sense the end of a party five minutes
before anyone else did, suggested to Angus that they take their leave and
went to say good night to Isabel.

Isabel impulsively threw her arms around Hester and thanked her for
coming, then shook hands with Angus. She went around the room
tearfully hugging everyone indiscriminately and exclaiming what a good
time she had had after all, as each of her guests in turn laughed
indulgently and shook their heads at her affecting behaviour. Then,
conscious for the first time that evening of being the centre of attention,
Isabel burst into fresh, happy tears and ran out of the room.

“Well!” said Cloris Beecham in her forthright manner. “I could not have made a better exit myself.”

As he was walking down Piccadilly not many days later, in the direction of his club, Viscount Kedrington found his attention diverted by the
sight of another man walking toward him on the opposite side of the
street. He was a young man, who wore a curly-brimmed beaver hat and
clothing which was both fashionable and fitting, but somewhat inappropriate, as if he had been accustomed to some other sort of covering.
He looked, indeed, very much as Kedrington had felt in the first weeks after his return from Spain. Suddenly he knew who the young man was. He gave a low, almost inaudible whistle.

The young man spun around quickly, looking for the source of the
unexpected sound. He saw the viscount, stopped, stared, and ejaculated,
“Oh, my God —Lobo!” He ran across the street, disregarding a tilbury
that nearly knocked him down, flung an arm around Kedrington’s
shoulders, and pumped his hand vigourously up and down.

“Lord, fancy running into you here! Never thought I’d live to see
it—not that I’d have recognised you, rigged up like that! Bang up to the mark, ain’t you?”

Kedrington stepped back to appraise his young friend and remarked
that he, too, appeared to have contracted a severe case of à-la-modality, upon which Carey Fairfax threw back his head and laughed.

While he
recovered his composure, Kedrington examined him with a newly critical eye and thought that his relationship to Antonia Fairfax showed most
strongly in his delicately shaped but resolute mouth. His nose was fine
and straight, like Antonia’s, but his eyes, presumably a legacy from their
father, were not blue but a lively hazel, topped by straight brows set neatly
in a square face. His hair was a rich brown which owed its sheen to
exuberant good health and exercise rather than to the application of
Russian Oil. He was, in fact, an extremely handsome young man, but Kedrington was not about to indulge his vanity by telling him so.