Escapade (26 page)

Back at Grosvenor Square the next afternoon, Ella gave a deep thought to her position and came to a conclusion. The Season was nearing completion. She would continue being Miss Prattle till June 1, to complete her contract with Thorndyke. Information would be gathered from Sara and her grandmother, for she herself would go no more into society. Naturally, Clare's name would not appear in the column. She had already set on Lord Byron as his successor. On June 1 she would return to Fairmont, to return no more to London, but to occupy herself with the long-delayed start on her novel. This left two interminable weeks to be endured before her departure.

Clare got a late start from his palace, but arrived in London very shortly after Sara and Ella, with the help of his well-matched grays. He went home, changed, took up Ella's copy of
Pride and Prejudice
and decided to have lunch at a club before making his call. Lady Sara, eager to go out and make up for lost time by a few visits, had the carriage called and took her mother with her. Ella stayed home, giving instructions to the butler to say she was not at home. So when the Duke came with her book in his hands, it was taken by Greeves, who informed His Grace he would make sure Miss Fairmont received it. When pressed for information as to where Miss Fairmont might be found, Greeves prevaricated that “the ladies” were out visiting. Some considerable driving about town was required before Lady Sara's town chaise was spotted, but not much looking was necessary to see Ella was not in it. Clare pulled up and exchanged polite inquiries as to the safe arrival back in town of his guests.

“We are fine,” Sara told him happily. “Ella is at home. She decided not to come with us.” She hoped he might take the hint to go and see her, if such was his intention, while she was alone.

“I see,” he said and soon drove off. What he saw, of course, was that Miss Fairmont had left instructions she was not at home to him, and he took instant umbrage. A few acquaintances waved to him as he passed, and one friend hailed him up for a chat.

“Hear you've been having some gay old times at Clare,” Mr. Best roasted, with a leer.

“Ah, you have been reading Prattle,” Clare laughed, though any reminder of that character stung him. “Well, I fear it was only an indifferent visit,” he admitted.

“For the guests maybe. We read you was pretty well entertained with your Hebe. Who is she, eh? And more importantly, old boy, did you bring her back with you?"

“I beg your pardon?” Clare asked, searching his mind for what this seeming non sequitur was all about.

“Oh, you're a sly one. You left her behind to polish the golden apple, eh? That was too bad of you, Clare. One of us would have been glad to take her off your hands. Any of your lightskirts would be worth a look. Well, toodle-oo. I'm off to Tatt's."

Clare drove home in a quandary, at a complete loss to understand the remark. Before he reached Belgrave Square, another friend made comments of a similar cast. Whatever Ella had written, it obviously had the town in an uproar.

He demanded the last week's copies of the
Morning Observer
the minute he was in the door, and went to his study to peruse them. The early copies he had already seen at Clare. The next couple seemed innocuous enough. He was not best pleased to read of himself as being slightly less than an indifferent jouster, but it could by no means account for what was being said around town. Then his hand fell on the fatal paper, and picking it up he read:

We have good reason to believe that the three young ladies are no more than a smoke screen to cover his true reason for deserting us in mid-season. It is no goddess he is wooing, but a mere Hebe. We have it of a first-hand witness at C—e that the damsel is unlikely ever to wear a coronet, a mobcap being her present headgear. Are you all agog to see Hebe? You may have the opportunity, when the dreary party at C—e breaks up, if His Grace has not tired of his new protégé by then, and decided to leave her behind with her dustrag, to polish the golden apple for next year. Ho hum, now for some interesting news.

The paper fell from his hand, and he stood staring at it, as though it were a live, terrible thing. His lips were white with fury, yet he sat down calmly and sorted through the remaining papers. A few mild comments about his house party, but no further reference to Hebe. His anger was bad enough, but added to it was a sense of confusion. What on earth was she talking about? Miss Prattle's barbs always stung, but even if misdirected, there was some truth behind them. This, the worst she had ever written, was completely fictitious. His first impulse was to drive over to Grosvenor Square and demand an explanation. This was closely followed by the memory of his last visit. He would not be admitted peacefully and wouldn't give her the satisfaction of causing a brawl on her doorstep, to be duly recounted in tomorrow's column, no doubt. He grabbed up a pen and dashed off a note.

Miss Fairmont:

I would like an explanation of this impertinent piece of libel, or it will be necessary for me to take legal action.

Yours respectfully, Patrick Beresford, Duke of Clare

He tore the offending column from the paper, folded it into the envelope, and sent it off to Grosvenor Square.

The column was read in other quarters where it caused a great excitement and various plans. The Dowager had read it the day before, shortly after her son left, and wondered with a shrug what Miss Prattle had misunderstood this time. Less emotionally involved, her mind was more precise, and she soon hit upon Prissie Muckleton as the Hebe referred to. The story obviously had come from the palace, and she wondered which of her guests had stumbled on Prissie. She settled on Belle Prentiss as the likeliest perpetrator of the story. Sherry saw it, and wondered for ten minutes what a Hebe was, but she eventually reached the same conclusion as the Duchess. She would make it a point to tell Clare she was not the one who told on him, and it sounded very much like Belle Prentiss.

Belle, innocent for once, read it and was more amazed than any of them. She knew herself to be innocent, and knew as well that the only one she had told was Ella Fairmont. The gentlemen and Sherry were automatically cleared of suspicion. At first, she thought Ella had mentioned it to someone, which was bad enough, but a checking of the date on the paper, and a computation of the time required to write a letter to London, and the story to percolate to Miss Prattle and be reported soon satisfied her that the story had gone directly from Miss Fairmont to the paper. There was no other way to account for its being printed so soon. She smiled with an anticipatory satisfaction and began laying her plans.

It must be Ella, but she would verify her suspicion before presenting it to the Duke. Then they would see how he liked Miss Fairmont and her clever pen. Nothing would be more likely to give him an abhorrence of the girl. An unacknowledged admiration for Ella was there, too. Who would ever have thought her capable of such a splendid stunt? All these years she had been going about to parties without claiming the least interest, and here she was Miss Prattle.

It was read at Grosvenor Square, too, not very long after Lady Sara returned from her drive and visits. She went to her niece's room, her eyes flashing fire, and said, “What is the meaning of this, my young lady?"

Ella told the story of Prissie Muckleton and Belle Prentiss in a confused, distracted manner, with such abject self-accusations that it was pointless to chastise her further. She was clearly on the edge of nervous collapse.

“Oh, Ella, what a shame! And he this very day asked for you when I met him. He cannot have seen the column then. How came you to do it?"

“I didn't know! It was the very next day that the Duchess took us to the orphanage and explained everything, and it was too late then to stop Thorndyke from publishing it. Sara, what am I to do?"

“I think your best bet is to make immediate tracks to Fairmont, and I shall do my possible to conciliate him."

“Yes, yes! I can't ever face him again."

“My God, Ella, and you might have married him!” Ella did not bother to deny it.

“He hadn't read this when he asked me."

“Oh, it is out of the question now. This goes much beyond the bounds of what is forgivable. I only hope he will not blame me for it."

“Tell him it was all my doing. He will know it anyway."

“I wonder that Thorndyke printed such a thing."

“He would not doubt it when he knew we were there, at the palace."

“Well, I am surprised it did not occur to you to doubt it, but it is too late for that now."

While they were still discussing their dilemma, a maid came to the door with a note for Miss Fairmont. “It's from him,” Ella said, looking at the crested envelope.

“For God's sake, open it. He has seen the column."

Ella's fingers were trembling so that she handed it to Sara. “You read it. I can't."

Sara tore it open and read the curt message. “He means to sue, and who shall blame him?” she said, handing it to Ella, who read, shook in her shoes, and handed it back.

“He wants an explanation. What shall I say?"

“You'd better tell the truth. I shouldn't think he even knows what you were talking about."

“Oh Sara, must I tell him I was gossiping with Belle? It is so vulgar..."

“Not so vulgar as repeating the gossip to the whole town! I wonder you should scruple at private scandalmongering."

“You wrote in the column, too,” Ella reminded her.

“I know it. You needn't remind me. We are in this together—Mama, too, if it comes to that. Don't worry that we mean to desert you."

“Will you help me write him an explanation? Perhaps if I apologize..."

“Certainly you must apologize. I think it will be better if we go to see him."

Ella's eyes widened in horror. “No! I couldn't face him in person. It must be a letter."

“You may be right. We must take great pains with it—wheedle him into a good humor if we can."

“Yes, and tell him I mean to give up the column."

“My dear idiot! That goes without saying. What you must do is let him see you were jealous of what Belle told you. He would not be so inhuman as not to forgive jealousy. He told me once it was the easiest of all vices to pardon."

“No, I shan't tell him I was jealous!"

“This is no time for standing on your high ropes, my girl. Every wile must be used."

“I
refuse
to write that."

“Well, I think perhaps it will be best if
I
write the letter, dear. You are in no fit case to be composing. Leave it all to me."

“I wish you would do it. But don't tell him I was jealous."

“If you say so,” Lady Sara said agreeably, but when she had written a reply, she did not trouble to show it to Ella for approval, but sent it to Belgrave Square with the greatest speed.

It was read with a similar speed, and sufficiently smoothed the ruffled noble feathers that no thoughts of suing were pursued. There was even a hint of satisfaction on Clare's brow as he read that Ella had been plunged into a positive
ague
of jealousy upon hearing Belle's story. He was not happy that the answer came from Lady Sara rather than Ella, but softened to read that the poor girl was prostrate on a bed of sorrow. He would let her stew a few days and then call on her. But upon consideration he thought he had still to repay her for not being home to him. He would ignore her for a week—resume with his other flirts, and give her jealousy time to ripen. Not cut her, of course, or pretend in the least that he was angry. He would be civil but distant, and enjoy himself hugely when they chanced to meet in public. He realized perfectly well that it was an odious trick, but Miss Prattle deserved it, whatever about Miss Fairmont.

He looked forward with pleasure to the Ottley's rout that night, and felt a sense of letdown when neither Lady Sara nor Ella appeared. He thought then that he ought to have acknowledged Sara's letter, and told them he meant to drop the matter. Very likely they had stayed away because he had not made known his intentions in that regard.

The next morning he wrote Sara a short note accepting her story and apology, and casually slipped in that he would likely see her at the Opera. In fact, he did see Lady Sara, but not her niece. Ella, she said, was not feeling quite the thing. A bout of flu, she feared. He thought it more likely it was a bout of pique that he had not been to see her, and accepted the lie without a blink.

“There's a lot of it going around,” he said, then excused himself to go and admire Sherry's latest gown. He stayed with her for five minutes, confirming out of the corner of his eye that Lady Sara was not oblivious to the fact.

He had to hear from several other members of society what a sly old dog he was, keeping his new flirt out of the city, but he assured them one and all he was not through with her yet.

Ella stuck by both of her intentions. It was not necessary to go to Fairmont since Clare had forgiven the column, but she stayed at home, and said not a word about him in the few remaining pieces she had to write. Lady Watley and Sara told her what was going on, and she faithfully reported what was told her, so long as it did not involve Clare.

Patrick was becoming impatient with her long absence, but had decided he would not go to call till he had the pleasure of paying her off in public first. He flipped through his invitations each day, deciding where she was most likely to be, and though he frequently encountered Lady Sara, he never inquired for her niece, nor did he see her.

Ella was despondent and bored. It proved impossible to write a novel when she was so completely wrapped up in her own predicament, but she sat with the blank pages before her, doodling and telling herself she was planning an outline. She was surprised one afternoon, a week after returning to town, to receive a call from Belle Prentiss. Next to Clare, she could not think of anyone she would less like to see, but curiosity and ennui conspired to have the visitor admitted to her presence.

Belle, like Clare, looked in vain at every social gathering for Ella and, unlike Clare, took the bull by the horns when a week passed and still she had not seen her. “I hear you have not been well, Ella, and decided to make a sick call. I am happy you are not in your bed."