Escapade (25 page)

After the minuet, Sherry approached Ella. “Oh, Miss Fairmont, you must tell me, for I am dying of curiosity. Did Clare really mean what he said to you?"

How strong the temptation was to tell this beautiful, hateful girl the truth. “At dinner you mean?” Ella asked, as though she could scarcely remember.

“Yes, when you dashed out of the dining hall."

“It was a joke, of course, but I lost my temper with him, odious man, for making it sound as though he meant it."

“I was sure it was a joke,” Sherry replied, then went in search of Belle to confirm that she had been right all along.

Belle had long since put the same question to Clare, and when given Sherry's story, contradicted it. “He told me he was very fond of Miss Fairmont,” she informed Sherry.

“Anyone may be fond of her, but did he say he wanted to
marry
her?"

“Not precisely, but when I said I knew he was only roasting the poor girl, and it was too bad of him, he got very angry and said he could think of no one he would rather marry."

“And only look at the plain old gown she is wearing. I have seen it on her times out of mind. I can't think what he sees in her."

“Not a clotheshorse in any case, dear,” Belle said sweetly, then turned away to smile at a particularly handsome squire's son she had had a charming flirtation with at the ghost party.

Ella avoided the Duke as long as possible, and as he seemed content just to know she was there—he did know that, for their eyes met several times—it was not difficult. But the time came, at last, when she must face him. A waltz had just finished. Ella was with Bippy, and Clare was with Sara, and at the music's end Sara led Clare towards her niece. Ella longed to run for the door but knew perfectly well that several pairs of eyes were trained on them; she steeled herself for the meeting.

She curtsied and said in a calm voice, “A very pleasant ball, Your Grace."

“Very nice,” Bippy mumbled, and Sara too threw in some platitudinous compliment.

“You young ladies deserve the credit,” Clare replied. “Your flower arrangements are unexceptionable."

“It was Belle and Sara who did that,” Ella returned.

“Do you find it too warm in here? I could have some windows opened if you wish,” Clare suggested, apparently as determined as the young lady to say nothing of interest.

Sara decreed it was not at all warm, and the elderly ladies sitting along the wall would not like a blast of cold air on their backs.

“I am not too warm,” Ella added.

“Well I am, by Jove,” Bippy said. “Think I'll go and get a glass of punch. Will you come with me, Miss Fairmont?"

She snatched at the chance to get away. “Yes, I am thirsty."

“You, Sara?” Clare asked.

“Let's all go,” Sara decided, hoping to prolong the meeting with Clare and Ella that all might be witness to their continued friendship. Since it was possible to walk only two abreast across the crowded floor, no conversation was necessary between the feuding couple. Wine was brought to the ladies, and Sara decided to make one last desperate throw to reconcile them, or at least give them privacy to do the job themselves.

“Bippy, will you come with me to the study for a moment? There are ten minutes before the next dance, and I should like a nice quiet sit-down to rest my head and feet."

He could hardly refuse and in fact had no desire to do so, as it was not every day a fashionable lady of the first stare like Lady Sara requested his escort. They sailed off together, while Ella's heart first sank, then rose unaccountably to her throat.

“We should have one dance together, for the looks of it,” Clare said, when they had been deserted.

“Do you think it necessary?” Ella asked, in the tone of one long inured to self-sacrifice in the common good.

“Preferable, not necessary,” he returned, with an air of the greatest indifference.

“Very well."

“I expect I ought to thank you for putting in an appearance,” Clare continued. “Your aunt tells me it was done to save my face."

“To save unnecessary gossip."

“And my proposal—no, no, don't cringe, I am not about to repeat it—is to be explained as a joke in very poor taste?"

“I think it best, yes."

“As you wish, though I still fail to see why you consider the mere offer such an insult that it must be kept hidden at all costs.” His voice, formerly indifferent, was gaining emotion as he spoke, and Ella had to make an effort to keep her own calm.

“I am only thinking of yourself."

“One rejection is not likely to sink me entirely. Or perhaps my
monstrous arrogance
leads me astray in the matter?"

“I prefer we do it in this way,” Ella said and gave no further explanation.

“If you will pardon my making a suggestion, Miss Prattle, you would do yourself a greater service if you admitted I had asked you. Yes, don't goggle—I give you carte blanche to print it up in your column. It will not detract from your consequence to have refused me."

“No, indeed,” she replied, goaded by both his tone and words, “to have refused you must be a strong testament to my judgment."

“It would help to counteract the infamy of your position as Miss Prattle, in any case."

“You cannot mean to tell anyone!"

“How unhandsome that would be in me. But there is no matching me for gall, you know.” Sara, of course, had relayed that phrase to him.

“I came to your ball to try to make up for any harm I have done you as Miss Prattle. If you tell a soul, I will never forgive you!"

“And take a lifelong vengeance by scribbling the lot up in your column to bore society."

“You are hateful!” she said.

“This bickering is pointless. Let us go on to the ballroom, if you're up to it."

“I'm up to anything you are, so you needn't think me lacking in nerve."

“I of all people ought not to accuse of that,” he returned, and they walked off together to the ballroom, to show the world by their scowling faces and utter lack of conversation with each other, that they were on the best of terms. They confirmed the lie by taking a cold, formal leave the minute the music stopped, and by not so much as glancing at each other during the remainder of the evening.

Still, they had been seen together, and so the affair passed over as a nine-hour's wonder. Neither the Sheridans nor the Prentisses had the least desire to puff Miss Fairmont up by bruiting such a story about, and the gentlemen were none of them keen gossips. Naturally both Miss Fairmont and Miss Prattle were mute on the subject, and so the principals scraped through with only their feelings battered.

The guests, with the exception of the Straywards, were all preparing to leave first thing in the morning. By setting out early, only one night would have to be spent at an inn, and even getting little sleep after a ball was preferable to repeating this experience two nights in a row. The young gentlemen had some thoughts of making London that same night. No private farewells were taken by anyone. Clare and his mother went to the lawn to give and receive thanks and wave their handkerchiefs as the various vehicles bowled down the drive. Ella was not distinguished from the others by either more or less attention from the host. If his smile was a shade less warm for her than for some of the others, his Mama's was warmer, and Ella could not even have the satisfaction of feeling slighted. She leaned back against the squabs of the carriage, heaved a vast sigh of relief, then immediately bounced forward to have one last look at the grounds as the trip home was begun. Crazy Nellie's Tower, tilting a little, the Oriental Pavilion, the pond—each dredged up a memory, and brought a lump to her throat. She would see them no more. It was a sad end to the visit, but at least it was an end, and the process of forgetting could begin.

Sara, eager to discuss the visit, took one look at the Friday face on her niece and refrained from discussion. She closed her eyes and pretended to sleep, though her mind was busy with schemes to throw the pair together when they got back to London. Clare would not be far behind them, she surmised.

The Duchess was not so considerate of her son. He too looked to be in a bad skin, but she lit into him the minute they were reseated at the breakfast table, over a fresh cup of coffee.

“Now, Master Jackanapes, I would like you to tell me what you meant by last night's disgraceful performance."

“It's no point pretending you refer to anything but my proposal to Ella, I suppose?” he replied.

“No point in the least. What possessed you to do such a ramshackle thing to the poor girl?"

“Strangely enough, I did not consider an offer of marriage a ramshackle thing. I am at a loss to know why it has everyone in the boughs."

“It was the way of it, Patrick, so public and unseemly, to a shy girl like Ella. Belle Prentiss now, or Sherry, would have been in alt. Belle would have answered you in verse on the spot and painted up a picture of it afterwards to set on the wall. Sherry would have run to a mirror to admire the stars in her eyes, but Ella ... And besides, no one seems to think it was a real proposal, and to make fun of her with a mock proposal—but I know that's not what you meant, whatever the others think."

“I hope I am not such a loose screw as that."

“Well, of course you ain't, Patrick. It's this Prattle creature who has given you such a black reputation."

“I hold Prattle largely responsible,” he replied curtly.

“Still, that is in no way Ella's fault, and you have treated her shabbily. Now, I have been thinking what it is best to do,” she continued contentedly, “and I think you must run up to London as soon as we get the Strayward ménage blasted off, and make it up with Ella. Lady Sara will stand your ally."

“No, that is quite impossible,” he said firmly.

“Nonsense. Nothing is impossible if you set about it in the right way. You took her by surprise. You must have. She was not expecting an offer on such short acquaintance. No person of any sense or sensibility would credit you were serious anyway, just blurting it out like that, out of the blue. And speaking of sense and sensibility reminds me, don't forget to get Miss Austen's books for me. Oh, Patrick, the very thing! I have Miss Fairmont's copy of Pride and Prejudice. What an excellent excuse to call on her!"

“Have you indeed?” he asked. From the interested tone, the “quite impossible” seemed to be now capable of consideration at least. “Certainly it must be returned,” he allowed.

“Yes, there is nothing so annoying as losing a favorite book. And very likely she took your book on Kant with her and will have an excuse to see you too or, at least, write a note."

“No, she will most certainly have left it behind."

“I'll send a boy up to her room right now to see. Arking!” She executed the command, and in five minutes Kant's
Critique of Pure Reason
was being handed to her.

“Gudgeon,” she grumbled.

“She is not looking for an excuse to be in touch with me,” Clare pointed out.

“I wonder how soon we might expect the Straywards to leave,” he said, looking at his watch. Leaving in his curricle, he might even overtake Sara's coach before they got to London.

“He got to bed early enough,” the Dowager replied meaningfully. “Passed out at the table, I suppose?"

“Yes, he can't have kept his head up two minutes after the ladies left."

“Pity he didn't conk out before dinner, pest of a man. Really they are too pushing for anything. I wonder whom they'll sic Honor onto next."

There was no time for a reply. The entire Strayward family came into the room together at that moment. The answer was soon discovered, as soon as everyone had said good morning.

“We are dropping by Welmere on our way to London,” Strayward told them. Welmere, the family seat of Lord Buchan, Earl of Buchan and Baron Rawdon, could by no manner of computation be considered as “on the way to London,” being twenty-five miles due north. “Buchan ain't engaged or anything, is he?"

“Not to my knowledge, sir,” Clare answered promptly, a vast weight slipping from his back. A great fear had seized him that Strayward would return to the attack on himself, once he saw he was not really engaged.

“How old a man would you say he is?” the Marchioness asked.

“Not a day over forty,” Clare replied, skimming a mere ten years from the man's probable age.

“That's all right then,” the Marchioness said. Honor was twenty, give or take a year.

“Are they Tories, Papa?” Honor asked, with the intention of insulting the Duke.

“Funny thing, that. Don't know what they are,” the papa replied, frowning.

“Tories,” the Dowager informed them, though she hadn't the least notion what they were.

“Good,” Honor replied, feeling herself to be very witty and sarcastic. She then dug into a hearty breakfast to sustain her till they reached Welmere.

Clare entertained the hope that he would be able to get away within the hour, but the dilatory family sat discussing Buchan, his relations, Welmere, and relevant matters for an hour, and then startled the host and hostess by asking to be shown the library. Clare feared a long wait was in store, but it was only one book they wished to see. They asked Mr. Shane for Debrett's
Peerage
, and the three of them poured over it, quite shamelessly discussing the points of Welmere, and whether Buchan was up to Lady Honor's weight, genealogically speaking. He was inferior to Clare in all but politics and availability, but they settled on him nonetheless.

“We'll cut up to Welmere then,” Strayward decided.

“Do you know him at all?” his wife asked.

Clare and his Mama exchanged a wild eye and were hard pressed to keep a straight face.

“If he's a Tory, I must have met him,” the husband replied, and with this hypothetical acquaintance they finally went, to impose themselves on a stranger for an unspecified length of time.

“I don't believe what I have just seen and heard,” the Dowager said, when they were alone.

“Old Buchan is fat and gouty, and might very well relish a young morsel like Honor,” Clare returned, smiling.

“And will he be to her taste? The right flavor anyway—Tory."