“Oh but he was, and it was all my stepmother’s doings,” Perdita answered for me.
Aunt Maude is thin, fashionable, dark-haired and fair-skinned. I should think she was beautiful a few decades ago. She is still not unattractive. “That vulgar woman!” she said scornfully. “It is enough to make a body doubt Sir Wilfrid’s sanity, to see him kowtow to her. But why did he send you to Agatha, instead of to me? He knows I have been wanting to have you for an age. You must be presented properly, in London, Perdita.”
“I would
love
it of all things, Auntie!” my charge coo’d, her eyes lighting up magnificently at the suggestion.
“It was pure spite, his sending us to Agatha,” I answered. “He was so furious at my talking him out of Croft that he sent us to Agatha to show us a lesson.”
“I would not put it a peg past him, but still I do not know how it comes you are in London, instead of at Bath, or back at home. We were frantic to learn you were not with Agatha. Sir Wilfrid sent me packing merrily off to Bath, and Agatha—who is making a great piece of work about a set of sniffles—assured me you were put off by a letter from her at Chippenham. Back to Swindon I go, to be told you never returned. Now, where
were
you?”
“We went to you, Auntie,” Perdita said, in her ingratiating way. “We came on to London to Alton’s, and John took us to you, but you were not at home, so we stopped off a few days with his new fiancée, then came back here.”
“I sent letters all over, so you would know where to find us,” I added, hoping she would be satisfied with this sketchy tale.
“I am happy to hear you behaved so sensibly,” Maude said, more or less satisfied. Neither Perdita nor I could prevent a quick, smiling exchange of glances at this speech. “But then one can always rely on
your
sound judgment, Moira. You had no trouble along the way?”
“None of any account. Not worth mentioning,” I said, my voice high with the strain.
“I see the two of you laughing up your sleeves. Some hedgebird or other was dangling after this minx,” she said, with a sly look at her niece. “I am sure you took good care of her,” she added to me.
“I trust she is not quite ruined.”
As I thought of the possible difficulties Maude might encounter in presenting Perdita to Society next year, I braced myself to give some indication of trouble. The Lady Dulcinea or her mama, for example, might trace a resemblance to April Spring in her.
“There was one unfortunate incident,” I admitted.
“I knew it! I saw the two of you biting back your smiles. Let us hear it.”
“There was a gentleman at Grifford’s houseparty who drove us to London, by an indirect route. We stopped at his summer home for luncheon and there was a—an accident. He got shot, in the shoulder.”
“Good gracious! I hope he was not killed. How did it happen?”
I jumped in, before Perdita could take center stage. "His handyman was shooting rabbits, and somehow or other Stornaway got hit by mistake.”
"Stornaway!
You never mean you had the temerity to crawl into a carriage with
that
rattle! You were fortunate it was not yourselves who were shot. But you could not know anything of the man’s character, of course, living way off at Swindon. He is not the sort of gentleman you ought to have anything to do with, girls. I hear all manner of tales about his mama, who is a bosom-bow of the Prince Regent, you must know. She is often at the Pavilion, in Brighton. Stornaway and his set are wild.”
After this outbreak, I gave no more details concerning our relationship with him. "He was good enough to loan us his carriage to come on here without him in any case,” I said, trying not to show my indignation.
"You must not speak too hard against Stornaway, Auntie,” Perdita said, with a mischievous smile. "Moira has a tendre for him, I believe. Unfortunately, it was
me
he fancied, but I do not care for him.”
"Wise girl! I had as lief see you shackled to Croft. We will keep you away from the likes of Stornaway when we present you. However, there will be no difficulty in that. He is on the verge of marrying Sarnia’s daughter, if one can believe gossip.”
"The Sarnias have a better opinion of him than you do then, have they?” I asked, hearing and disliking the tone of pique in my voice.
“Not in the least. It is a marriage of convenience. He is rich and noble—that is all that matters in that tribe. His own family the same. They are all cut from the same bolt, the nobility.”
Her words sat heavily on my heart. “I hope Stornaway behaved himself?” she asked, looking pretty sharp at my expression.
“Moira kept him in line,” Perdita said, with uncommon reticence. “I am happy to have met him, as it gave me some knowledge firsthand of how rakes act. I had been cautioned, of course, but
now
I shall recognize one when I meet him, and avoid him.”
"He
did
behave badly, then! What did he do?”
"Nothing, really. He was always flirting, and complimenting me,” Perdita said. "Once he tried to kiss me, but Moira wouldn’t let him.”
“It is only to be expected. Well, girls, it is over now. We shall leave for Brighton tomorrow. Sir Wilfrid knows you are to stay with me, both of you. I could not do without you too, Moira. After we have popped this young Incognita off, you and I shall settle down happily. There is no saying we won’t find a parti for you at Brighton as well. The older bachelors and widowers assemble there, you know. I do not refer to Prinney’s set. There are decent persons going to Brighton as well, now that it has become the fashion. You are looking well, Moira,” she added, examining me more closely.
"Very
well. A sort of a glow—the fresh air of spring must account for it. Yes, certainly we shall find a decent man for you."
The prospect of a decent man seemed remarkably tame and unsatisfactory to me. I wondered when I might expect to hear from Stornaway. No, really, I wondered if I would hear from him at all. Under his mother’s persuasions, he might be talked out of even sending a note, to render excuses for not seeing us again.
Chapter Nineteen
Brighton
was
jolly in the spring. We did not actually get invited to the Prince’s Pavilion, nor would we have been taken if we had. Mrs. Cosgrove held the Prince and his set in great contempt, but we drove past it several times, to admire its domes and gilt, and gardens. We also went shopping, went to Donaldson’s library, went for walks and drives along the coast. We were introduced to Maude’s set, which was enlarged now to include the sons, brothers and nephews of her own cronies. Perdita was soon the leading belle of the city. Her coterie grew quickly to a throng, then a crowd, and finally a squeeze to fill the saloon. Sir Wilfrid sent money from home, Maude sent to Chippenham for our trunks and to pay the bill at the inn, our debt to the Altons was discharged. All loose ends were tied up except for my friend at Birdland. Plans were always afoot to advance Perdita in the world.
"I do believe I shall present her in London in the fall, Moira,” Maude revealed one afternoon. "She is better behaved than I hoped. She has no love for rakes and rattles, as a young girl will often do. You did a good job of rearing her.”
“Thank you. I did my best for her.”
“You are sad at the prospect of losing her. You have scarcely smiled since you came. You are losing that healthy glow you had in London. Cheer up, my dear. Your useful days are far from over. You and I shall deal famously after she is married.”
With such an incomparable as Perdita under the roof, any further mention of finding a bachelor or widower for myself had been forgotten. Even the bachelors and widowers preferred her less mature charms. But the real reason for my lack of smiles was, of course, that no word was heard from Stornaway. Ten days had passed since leaving Birdland, more than enough time for him to have written. Even long enough for him to be back on his feet, to have come in person. That gesture suited his flamboyant and romantical nature. In my mind, his hellraking had been smoothed over to flamboyance and romanticism, you see.
I mentally set fourteen days as the longest duration I would go on waiting and hoping. It was on the evening of the tenth day that Mrs. Cosgrove mentioned, very casually, that “that Stornaway fellow” had been to call while we were out, but she had not encouraged him to return.
My heart flipped over in my breast. “What did he say?” I asked.
“He inquired for her—you, both of you. I told him you were both fine, and that I would convey his compliments. He will not be back. He is not slow to grasp a hint; I’ll grant him that. He puts up at the Pavilion, you know, with his mama. The countess is a shabby, fast lady. They say she and the Prince performed a duet at the Pavilion last night. Stornaway left off cards for us to attend a party there this evening, but I threw them out.”
The Prince and the Pavilion were much discussed by Maude’s set of friends. They disparaged everything about it, but in that eager way of the outsider who would, in fact, give an eyetooth to get in. I was astonished to hear she had thrown the tickets into the dustbin, till I saw that they had gone instead into the corner of the framed mirror just inside the front door, for her callers to stare at. “Oh, could we not go?” I asked.
Her dark eyes slid hungrily to the corner of the mirror. “It would do well enough for you and me, but I cannot like to take Perdita there. Truth to tell, I should like to
see
inside it myself. Gretta Norton went once, and never stops boasting of it. I have never been in. One hears marvelous, incredible tales of its splendors, and certainly the exterior is a wonder. But it is the likes of Stornaway she would be exposed to, you know, and he is not at all the thing.”
“How did he look? Was he recovered from his accident?”
“He had one arm in a black sling, but told me it was a precaution only. He said he had written you at Alton’s. I told him she was gone off to Bromley Hall. Servants are hopeless; they hadn’t the wits to forward the letter here.”
“Did he say he would come back?”
“No, my dear. You need not fear he will. I most particularly said he would not, to set your mind at rest.”
Stark dismay overcame me. I could not conceal it, but its cause was misread by my cousin. Her mind was full of those two white cards, stuck into the mirror. “You are regretting the trip to the Pavilion,” she told me. “How should it be possible to take Perdita there, and you? You have neither of you been presented . . . Of course it is a very informal do, not really any official residence either, only a holiday home. I think . . ." She strode to the mirror and seized the cards. “Yes, it is a masquerade party, which is the very shabbiest sort of a do, but at least one's identity need not be known. We could take a quick peek in, just to see the place, and dart out before the unmasking. It is a May Day party. Tomorrow is the first of May. He will soon be going to London for the Season, I expect.”
“Is it not the custom for the Prince to leave his party first, before the other guests depart?”
“I believe it is, but Stornaway mentioned twice its being only a small informal do. Of course he did not say so till I mentioned my disgust of big parties.”
“It is too late to prepare costumes.”
“Too late? Why, we would have all day tomorrow. Dominoes can be had ready-made, and masks . . ." I looked, to see whether to allow my hopes to soar once more, as they had when first she told me of the call. Her face was radiant. Though she did not realize it, the precious cards were held against her heart. “Since you are so eager to go, my dear, I shall oblige you in the matter. It will do Perdita a world of good to be on terms with the Prince when she goes to London, too. A little attention from him would set her up.”
There was a small party coming in for dinner. The famous cards were removed from the mirror to sit on the sofa table, for easy discovery by the first lady who laid down her reticule. It chanced to be a Mrs. Carlisle.
“Maude—what is this?” she asked, picking them up. “How did the Prince ever hear of you?”
“Lord Stornaway, an acquaintance of my niece, called and brought the cards. The son of that shabby countess who billets herself at the Pavilion every spring.”
“Ah, the handsome son!
That
explains it. He has Perdita in his eye. He flies too high for her, Maude. I saw Lady Stornaway in the royal carriage this afternoon. She is either the Prince’s
chère amie
or the
chère amie's
best friend. There is some uncertainty in the matter, but she is seen about
everywhere
with him. I would adore to meet her.” Mrs. Carlisle received a half dozen glares at having let a piece of truth slip into her outpouring.
“She is lively, a pretty woman,” one of the gentlemen was allowed to acknowledge.
“I saw her walking in the gardens in a damped gown, at
her
age,” the admirer’s spouse said spitefully.
“Wish
I
had seen her,” the husband retaliated.
“You will never accept the invitation, Maude?” Mrs. Carlisle asked.
“Miss Greenwood has twisted my arm. She wants to go and see the Prince’s treasures.”
“What is the son like?” another lady asked.
“You must ask my niece,” Maude replied, the interest of her caller mounting higher at every question and comment. “He was very taken with her. She has visited at his summer place, near Tunbridge Wells.”
“I did not care for him,” Perdita said firmly. “He is fast.”
The neighbors nodded their heads in approval of her wisdom, and continued to proclaim their lack of interest in meeting such an infamous pair of rakes as the Stornaways for several minutes. Their indifference reached such heights they could speak of nothing else till dinner was served.
When the last hand of cards was played and the company departed, Maude said complacently that she had not had such a pleasant evening in years. Her only regret was that Gretta Norton had not been present.
“We shall go downtown very early in the morning to choose our dominoes and masks, to leave time to make a few preparations for the little party,” she said casually.