Authors: Elsie Lee
Useless!
While the others relished omelets, various jelly shapes and stewed fruits, baskets of pastry, a dish of spinach with croutons, and some anchovy toasts (among other things), his grace was content with a
crème Bavarois,
a morsel of sponge cake and a peach. He was quite unaware that his refusal of the
attereaux de ris de veau
was creating a crisis belowstairs, where Jean-Pierre threatened to suicide himself!
Julian himself was more murderous than suicidal, and took the earliest opportunity of telling his cousin to hedge off. “Lud, Julian,” said Lord Arthur easily, “there’s nothing in it—you know me better. She’s a damned fine girl, I’d think myself lucky if I could find something similar, but frankly, old boy—she’s a bit blue for my taste. You may understand her but I haven’t the education.”
“She is NOT a blue-stocking,” Julian roared.
“I never said she was,” Arthur replied, surprised. “Simply, if the young’un don’t know how to spell her name, the old’un knows twice too much. Makes me uncomfortable.”
“Then why don’t you go away?” Julian growled. “Heaven knows, you weren’t invited to turn up here. Aunt Georgie never told you to interfere.”
“No,” Arthur admitted. “She said you should have a private word with Lady Stanwood, disclose your budget. Once she knows you’re serious, she’ll assist. You’ll see,” he clapped his cousin on the shoulder jovially. “Wish you good luck, Coz!”
Thus emboldened, Julian arrayed himself with care—and an unaccustomed nervousness—the following day, and presented himself at Lady Stanwood’s residence, begging the favor of a word with her. Beamish looked dubious. “Her ladyship is preparing to drive out for the afternoon. If your grace would step into the salon, I will enquire whether she can receive you.”
The salon contained Sharlie penning a note at the desk. She rose to her feet in confusion, changing to her friendly smile upon seeing who entered. “Oh, I am so sorry,” she exclaimed, extending her hand. “Emily has but just gone to walk with some friends, what a pity.”
The touch of her hand in his ... the clarity of her eyes reflecting the green of her Italian crepe walking dress ... the frank smile of welcome ... all were too much for Julian. “I don’t come to this house to see Emily, but to see you,” he said huskily, holding her hand firm and drawing her a little toward him. “Miss Stanwood—my dearest Sharlie—will you do me the honor of marrying me?”
For a moment she stared at him, open-mouthed. “What?” she murmured faintly.
“My darling dear, I am asking—
beseeching
—you to marry me.” Julian sought to draw her into his arms, but she resisted.
“But you can’t,” she protested. “I mean, you want Emily, but she has gone walking.”
“No, I do NOT want Emily. I
never
have wanted Emily.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened. “What do you mean? You’re in love with her, from the first glance at Melsham.”
“I am not, I never have been, in love with Emily!”
To Julian’s astonishment, Sharlie went from shocked incredulity to anger. “But you
were,
you definitely WERE,” she insisted, “and if you changed your mind, you should have said so instead of taking up all my time. You’ve made me odiously conspicuous to all of London and Bath if you didn’t mean to offer for her. Nothing but a future engagement could excuse my being seen with you constantly. Everybody will think
I
was trying for you, and you didn’t come up to scratch. Oh, the humiliation!”
“But I have come up to scratch,” Julian pointed out.
“What of it? I can’t very well
explain
to Society.”
“Why not?”
“Because nobody’d believe me. You’re much too eligible for anyone to believe you’d be rejected.”
“There’s a simple solution: you can marry me.”
“That,” said Charlotte, “is the silliest thing you’ve said yet. I don’t want to be a duchess, I never wanted a second season in the first place, all I want is to stay at Stanwood and help to manage the estate.”
“In that case, what difference does London opinion make?”
“Well—I might wish to marry
sometime
, but who’d have me now?”
Julian felt his mind beginning to spin gently, he had never thought there could be so much involved in a simple declaration, but he persevered. “I’ve just said I’ll have you—and what’s wrong with me? Sharlie, my dear one,” capturing her hands once more, “I thought we dealt extremely well together. If you yearn to manage estates, I’ve got lots of ’em. You can stay in the country and never go to London if you don’t wish.”
“I don’t want to manage
your
estates, I don’t know anything about them,” she returned stormily, “and if I stay in the country, the
ton
will wonder why you’re ashamed to produce me.”
“Very well, you needn’t manage anything. I’ve already got excellent agents and stewards. We’ll open Imbrie House and live there, if you prefer.”
“I don’t—and I won’t be buried at your horrid castle when you’re off traveling,” Sharlie cried, trying to release her hands. “Mr. Brummell says it’s the most uncomfortable pile in all of England.”
“I’ll pull it down and build whatever you like, wherever you like,” Julian promised recklessly, “and I’m through with travelling. It isn’t safe these days, and besides, I’ve already been everywhere. Now I want to settle down—with you, my darling.”
“Oh, very good!” Sharlie snorted. “You mean you will never take me anywhere because
you
are tired of voyages.”
“Nonsense,” said Julian impatiently. “I wish you would stop twisting my words, Charlotte. In plain English, we will live wherever you wish, do whatever pleases you. If you’ve a fancy for travel, I will take you around the world—if you prefer country life to city, you may have it. Damme, what a pother you’re making, considering you’ve been perfectly happy with my company for weeks!”
“Damme, yourself! I won’t be married off just because you’ve put me in an odious position and are trying to be—to be a gent.”
“Oh, the devil with it!” Julian said vehemently, dropping her hands. “I did
not
propose in order to save your face, and I’ve never been a
gent
about anything. What’s more, if you have your eye on Arthur, you’ll never get him.”
“If you think I can’t do any better than you, I’d rather be a spinster forever!” Sharlie burst into tears, precisely as the door opened to admit Lady Stanwood. “Mama, you tell him...”
“Shhh, my love,” Lady Stanwood held her daughter’s shaking form. “Indeed there is nothing to cry about.”
“Oh, yes, there is,” Sharlie wailed. “Oh, mama, it was all a hum! How are we going to tell Emily?”
“Never mind Emily. I wish you will compose yourself, Charlotte.” Over her daughter’s shoulder, Lady Stanwood raised her eyebrows commandingly at the duke.
“All I did was ask her to marry me, ma’am,” Julian said wrathfully, twitching his coat sleeves into place, “and she’s enacting me a Cheltenham tragedy, claiming her exquisite sensibilities are bruised beyond recall.”
“Yes, yes, no doubt. My dear Imbrie, I wish you will go away for a while until Charlotte is more the thing—and she does have sensibilities, although I shouldn’t call them exquisite.”
“Neither should I,” Julian replied grimly. “Good God, ma’am, the things she said!”
“Well, you might have expected she would. It’s one reason you love her,” Lady Stanwood remarked severely. “Do, for heaven’s sake, go away, Imbrie. In round words, you’ve made a hash of it. Charlotte, stop bawling like a sick calf! Nobody will make you do anything you do not wish. No, you do NOT have to live in a castle, and yes, everyone WILL believe Imbrie came up to scratch as soon as Beamish gets down to the local alehouse. It will be all over Bath by dinner time, and if anyone is humiliated it will be Imbrie.”
Julian had never felt so helpless in his life, while Sharlie clung to her mother and sobbed disjointedly.
“Never mind Emily—I told you long since she was
not
your concern,” Lady Stanwood said with asperity. “Stop crying, Charlotte! I must say I feel you might have shown a little more restraint upon this occasion, my love. It is one thing for Beamish to overhear your calm rejection at the keyhole, where you may be sure he had his ear—and quite another for the entire household to be aware of a scene so tempestuous that he came in haste to fetch me.”
Behind her daughter’s back, she made flapping motions at Julian, who seized up hat and gloves, made for the door and sketched a bow. “Y’r servant, milady.” Flinging it open, he nearly fell over Beamish who was standing as close as possible in the hall. The butler moved away with what dignity he could, to open the entrance where he stood looking expressionlessly into space until the duke strode forward. With a fulminating glance, his grace extended a coin. “That should be enough to wet your throat for a full recital.”
“Yes, your grace. Thank you, your grace.” Beamish gently closed the door and examined the coin: a guinea.
Very handsome,
he said to himself, but after considering for some hours, Beamish concluded it could not be allowed to weigh, “for this would give rise to garbled accounts.” It was, Beamish decided, his positive duty to issue a correct statement.
While Lady Stanwood was soothing her daughter until she could be got up to her chamber for repose of her agitation, Julian drove at a reckless pace to Queens Crescent, where he tossed the reins to the stableboy and strode into his mother’s house with Stepan silently at his heels. As luck would have it, the dowager was descending the stairs with Miss Clapham in attendance, burdened with parasol, fan and vinaigrette. Lady Imbrie stopped short and eyed her son’s thunderous countenance with astonishment.
“Good gracious, what has happened? Where have you been?”
“To Lady Stanwood.”
“What in the world did she do to put you in such a temper?”
“Not she, but her daughter,” Julian said bitterly. “I wish you will come down from the stairs, mother. I should like to go to my room.”
“Her
daughter?”
Lady Imbrie stared. “Which one?”
“The elder. Will you move out of my way, madam?”
The dowager continued to stand stock-still. “Miss Charlotte Stanwood? A very pretty-behaved young female. Why have you taken a pet against her, Imbrie?” she inquired in the voice of one determined to get to the bottom of matters. “I thought it was settled she would be an excellent choice for Arthur, one I should be happy to welcome into the family.”
“I regret you will not have that opportunity,” he said icily. “Miss Stanwood has rejected my hand in marriage.”
“
Your
hand?” Lady Imbrie’s eyes popped.
“Yes, madam,” he said coldly. “Why so incredulous? God knows you’ve done your possible to marry me off for years. It would appear I am not so desirable a
parti
as you thought. Now, IF you please—or shall I use the servants’ stairs?”
Speechlessly, his mother tottered down to the hall, her face glassy with shock. Miss Clapham scurried forward to thrust the vinaigrette beneath the dowager’s nose, while Julian strode upward and vanished. Then with a moan she clutched her companion’s arm. “Did he really say what I think he said?” she asked faintly. “Good God,
rejected?
No, no, he must mean Arthur.”
Miss Clapham was bright-eyed, quivering with excitement, the while she assured Lady Imbrie her hearing was not deficient. Nothing so titillating had occurred in all the years of her association with the dowager. “Oh, no, Cousin Laura—it was never Arthur. I must say it has been quite clear from the moment of Julian’s arrival,” she tittered. “Why else did he come but to fix an interest? It was not just certain which girl had caught his eye, but very shortly it became obvious—all that riding and driving together, you know. Oh, yes, everyone in Bath has been expecting. I wonder you should not have realized.”
“Everyone has expected...?” Lady Imbrie repeated dazedly. “And he is refused? Oh, lud, the humiliation!” His mother’s discomfiture was nothing compared to Julian’s, and Arthur was no help. “Good God,” he exclaimed exasperated, “if ever there was a gudgeon. I despair of you, Julian. Why must you plunge in without warning, why could you not enlist Lady Stanwood’s aid first?”
“I meant to do so,” Julian admitted. “That’s why I was there, but she was being dressed and when I was shown into the salon ... well, Sharlie was there, and I lost my head.” He shrugged moodily.
“Hmph!” Arthur snorted. “Well, what’s to do now?” “Damned if I know. My hopes are quite cut up and I don’t need you to tell me it’s my own fault. The thing is that she not only never thought of me—she wouldn’t have had me if she
had
thought of me. I see that now: I never had a chance.”
“I don’t know that,” his cousin observed. “I fancy your chances were better than you realized, if you had not been so impetuous. She may be more receptive when she’s reflected.”
“Not she,” Julian shook his head. “It was as flat and final as she could find the words, Arthur. I could not discompose her by any repetition—nor face a second such scene. The butler heard. It will be all over town by morning. How can I encounter her again? I shall have to leave Bath.”