Escapade (5 page)

“Do you think so, love?” her aunt replied, the picture of innocence.

“Yes, for besides having a waltz with me at Almack's last night, he asked me for another dance, which I was obliged to refuse him, and now this. Lord, what a bore it will be, listening to his caterwauling. I suppose we must go?"

“He has a very fine voice. It will be quite a select do, too. His being a crony of Clare's raises the
ton
of the crew his dear Mama can assemble."

“Yes, Clare will be there, but there's not much he can do to make an ass of himself at a sit-down musical evening."

“There's always intermission,” Sara said with a cunning light in her eyes.

Unbeknownst to both ladies, a little something of interest also occurred before the musical evening. Not twenty minutes after leaving Mantel's house, Bippy encountered Clare on Bond Street, where His Grace had gone to replenish his supply of snuff.

“Ah, Tredwell,” he said, coming up to him on the sidewalk. “I was wondering if I might bump into you. I thought we might have lunch at some club or other. What have you been doing with yourself this fine day?"

“Just come from Miss Fairmont's,” he replied.

“Pursuing Lady Sara's niece, are you?” Clare asked, the name at last having stuck in his brain.

“No, no, nothing like that. Just securing her to attend my Mama's little soiree. Appreciates good music, you know."

“Does she indeed? I am surprised she condescended to waste her time on that Italian screech owl your Mama had the poor taste to engage then. But come, confess it is your fair self that is the attraction."

The pink glow that answered this remark was more speaking than words.
Damme, if Bippy isn't engaged in an amour, and with the most insignificant looking lady in London, too.

“I did mention I might be rendering an air or two. Tell me, Clare, should I do an Italian aria, or a simple country song? Which would be more suitable?"

“I took it as a matter of course you would be performing a love song,” Clare quizzed him.

“No, really."

“Do give us a respite from Italian tunes. Do something English,
short
and simple."

“What do you suggest?"

“How about blue-eyed Mary? Her name must surely be Mary, to match her face.” It was only fitting that such a common-looking lady have the very commonest of names.

“What, do you find her merry? Never noticed it myself. A bit of a serious girl. And her eyes ain't blue. At least I don't think they are."

“We shall go over your repertoire at lunch, and settle on something."

They strolled along Bond Street for half an hour, then repaired to White's for a meal. Bippy again broached the subject of a song, and it was becoming clear to Clare that his object was to choose something to do homage to Miss Fairmont. He had nothing to recommend regarding the song, but did say, “If this affair is serious, you shan't want to tear yourself away to come to Clare. You must not desert me, Bippy. I quite depend on you."

“No, no. Not serious at all. No thought of staying away from your party. Wouldn't miss it for the world."

“I feel the most selfish thing in nature to insist on—but my wits have gone begging! We must invite Miss Fairmont to be of our number."

“What, ask Miss Fairmont to Clare? No, really, Pa'k, you scarcely know her."

“But I am well acquainted with her charming aunt, Lady Sara. This will provide an unexceptionable excuse to lure her along. She is one of the four conversable women in London, and two of the others are not accepted in polite society."

“Who are they?"

“Tch, tch, you are much too innocent to hear such esoteric secrets. They would ruin you for Miss Fairmont. But I shall certainly drop by Grosvenor Square and leave a letter for Lady Sara. That is settled.'

Bippy was not only pleased but highly flattered at this pandering to his interest. Clare did not remember either to write a letter or drop it by Grosvenor Square, but when he saw Sara at Bippy's musical evening the following day, he did make the invitation.

It was accepted with a becoming show of delight on the part of Lady Sara, and acquiescence on the part of her niece. This calmness surprised Ella's aunt, who felt she had carried off quite a coup in arranging the visit. She was apprised of the reason on the way home.

“I sent in the most horrid article to the
Observer
this afternoon,” she confessed. “All about Clare's party in Dorset."

“Naturally you must mention so interesting an event. Tell me, what did you say?"

“I'll show you my rough copy when we get home,” Ella replied.

In Grosvenor Square, Ella handed a copy of her column to her aunt. “It's really beastly,” she warned, biting her lip and frowning.

Lady Sara took up the sheet and read aloud: “'History has the habit of repeating itself. The coming week will see a re-enactment of the Judgment of Paris. (He was the fairest of mortals, you Greek scholars will recall.) The three fairest damsels our Albion has to offer will be paraded before a latter-day Paris, the D—e of C—e, for him to bestow on one the Golden Apple of his favor. Bets will be taken at Brooks as to whether he will choose for his Venus L—y H—r, Miss S—n, or Miss P—s. We wait with baited breath to hear the outcome of the contest, and trust his grace will not disappoint us by once again delaying his selection, or disappoint the ladies by failing to show up at all.’”

Sara finished reading it and laughed. “Well, he shan't be surprised in any case, for he said the other evening he would wake up one morning and find you had got him engaged to someone."

“I wouldn't have sent it in if I had known he meant to ask us. Besides, it ruins the whole metaphor. What should we be doing at the contest?"

“Surely there were onlookers,” Sara pointed out. “But you must be careful, Ella, not to make it too obvious you are there in person—that Miss Prattle is, I mean. Let a little time lapse before you send in your jottings, so it will seem plausible Miss Prattle has had time to learn of the goings-on from letters written back to town. It will be the ruination of us if he finds out Prattle is there. He will know it is not that utterly witless Lady Honor, nor Sherry, so that will leave only Belle Prentiss and us. You must exercise the greatest caution."

“I don't think I shall mention it at all. It is not quite
comme il faut
in any case, for me to be poking fun at him, while a guest under his roof."

“It will look mighty suspicious if you let the story go, after this build-up you have given it. Besides, it is the very reason why I..."

“You what?” Ella asked, her suspicions just that very moment aroused. “Sara, you sneak, you wangled this."

“Perhaps I pulled a few strings,” she admitted, preening her hair and smiling.

“It was you who set Tredwell to dangling after me, wasn't it?"

“My dear, I am not a magician. I only set it up to put you in his way, and nature did the rest,” she prevaricated slyly.

“What stories have you told him?” Ella asked, undeceived.

“I did nothing indiscreet, my dear, so never mind that and let us decide how the party at Clare Palace is to be covered. I think you must go on in your regular way, throwing a little jibe in here and there, but just delay sending in the stories, and perhaps you should include a few errors to make it seem it is all done secondhand."

“
Under
handed is the way it will be done. I cannot like it."

Lady Sara made little of the deceit involved, and turned the talk instead to acquisitions of toilette necessary for a week's visit to one of the finest homes in England. Ella was lamentably ignorant of the quantity of gowns and accessories necessary for it, and it was for her aunt to take her in hand during the few days allowed them before setting out in Sir Herbert's traveling coach-and-four for the holiday.

Clare Palace was a huge crenellated pile of stones set deep in the heart of a vast parkland, reached by a winding road that turned off from the main post road and meandered through a meadow, a small coniferous forest, and a deer park, where live deer stood like stone statues to view the parade of carriages assembling for the week's visit. No fear or rancor marred their guileless eyes, almost as though they understood this batch of visitors had no intention of decimating their numbers. A sharp-eyed occupant of an incoming carriage might discern the glimmer of a white gazebo through the trees, done up in an oriental style, to mock the Prince's Brighton Pavilion. It was Joseph who had committed this atrocity, his last folly before falling from his horse and getting himself killed. A strange cylindrical edifice of stone, approximately four stories high with narrow slits of windows at irregular intervals, was knowingly pointed out by repeat visitors as the tower where one of the insane Clare ancestors had been incarcerated; though the fact that it gave a clear view for miles around might lead a visitor of historical inclinations to wonder whether it had not been in fact used as a lookout tower in years gone by, when England was still prey to invaders from abroad. When queried about its purpose by a shivering female guest, Clare invariably said it was Crazy Nellie's Tower, and they had best stay well away from it. He gave no hint as to whether it was Nellie herself, or her shade, who might pop out and kill them.

As they climbed the stone stairway to the north entrance, a porticoed affair with broken pediment and many columns, Ella said softly to her aunt, “Bet you a pound he won't be here."

“The Great Absent One will be here,” Sara replied, with surprising conviction. She was right, but neither of his guests gave him her full attention. They were too busy gawking like tourists at his entrance hall. It appeared to soar straight up to heaven, miles. and miles high, the clerestory pierced with round windows that bounced rays of light off frolicking cupids and garlands of flowers depicted on the painted ceiling. The hall was laid in black marble. Once Ella was sure she had a firm footing and wouldn't go slipping and disgrace herself instantly, she let her eyes roam around the lower walls, which were embossed with raised medallions of flowers, and took a peep through open doors into rooms as cavernous as cathedrals, and as richly appointed. The great stairway, done in oak with broad, shallow steps curved up to the right, across a landing, and down on the left, like a horse shoe.

“Welcome to Clare Palace,” the host said. Ella curtsied and mumbled something, while her eyes continued darting to suits of armor, curve-legged tables with marble tops bearing great pots of flowers, and sundry oil paintings hanging on the walls in impressive gilt frames.

“The Sedgleys have already arrived,” Clare said to Sara. “I hope you and your niece will join us in the drawing room after you have freshened up. Wiggins, call a house maid to show the ladies to their rooms,” he said over his shoulder to the butler. With a smile he was off, and the ladies were escorted to two regal suites, each large enough to house an entire family. There Bickles and Stepson rendered them a hasty toilette, and they were ready to return below.

They met outside their doors, and Ella said in a low voice, “Do you know the way? I swear this place is as big as London. I am sure to get lost if I ever have to go about on my own."

“There are the stairs for a start anyway,” Sara replied prosaically, and with this excellent starting point they made the landing, where Wiggins took them in hand and headed them in the right direction.

The Duke sat in a high-backed chair, of thronelike size and magnificence, in a room in which the chair did not seem overpowering. He looked on the verge of falling asleep, for he had been for some time in the presence of the Strayward ladies alone. He jumped up and greeted the newcomers eagerly and drew up a seat for Lady Sara beside himself. Ella took a place on the sofa next to Lady Honor.

“We were just saying, Sara,” he continued the monologue she had interrupted, “we shall plan nothing for today. The others will be arriving at intervals during the day, so I must remain here. If the good weather holds up, we shall take a picnic to the Pavilion tomorrow. I hope the ladies will enjoy that. It is supposed to be one of Nash's finer efforts, though I find it a trifle gaudy. There are a dozen mounts in the stables, some of them not too wild, if any of you would care to take some exercise in the morning. I know you will want to, and perhaps your niece....” he turned towards Ella.

Ella said nothing, so Sara replied for her, “Oh, yes, Ella rides, if the mounts are not too restive."

“If you do not care to ride,” he continued on, directing his comments to Ella, “there are several interesting walks. I shall be happy to point them out to you. Capability Brown is responsible for the east park, and Reston for the West, if you would care to compare their styles.” Ella smiled weakly and nodded, still saying nothing. It seemed like a dream to her, or perhaps more like a nightmare, being pinned by the eyes of the Duke, whom she had for so long been writing about.

“Or if you would like to take a tour of the palace, my housekeeper is an excellent tour guide. The west gallery is the oldest part, built in the sixteenth century by Sir John Thynne. Many young ladies prefer the neo-Gothic addition made later.” He stopped and stared at her, till she felt some reply was called for.

“Thank you,” she said.

“And there are the tower and the ruined chapel. But perhaps you are not interested in architecture, Miss Fairmont?” Before their arrival, Clare had been having a similar sort of one-sided conversation with the Sedgleys, and was becoming short-tempered with people who did not care to perform their social duties.

“Oh, yes,” Ella assured him, then added, “but I don't know very much about it."

“How very strange you have not learned, if it interests you,” he said, and wrote Miss Fairmont off as a dead bore.

“Tell me, Sara,” he turned again to the one lady in the room from whom he had some hopes of getting more than a monosyllabic reply, “What else can we do to amuse the guests?"

Wiggins then entered and poured wine, while a maid passed a tray of biscuits, which interlude gave Ella time to realize she ought to have made a better answer to his questions than she had, and to make a resolve to think of something to say.