The Bridal Season (9 page)

Eglantyne sniffled around a little laugh. “Oh, Lady Agatha,
you are too kind, playing the jester for me.”

Jester?
She’d been dead earnest.

Eglantyne’s expression sobered. “I wouldn’t mind so much, not
really, if I were only certain Angela was looking forward to it. But lately
Angela doesn’t seem the same happy girl I have always known and loved. She
looks pensive, and sometimes actually morose.”

“Wedding jitters.”

Eglantyne shook her head. “Angela’s never been a flighty sort
of girl. When she told us about Hugh Sheffield’s proposal, she was ecstatic,
otherwise Anton would never have agreed to the match.”

“Maybe she’s having second thoughts? That’s natural.”

“I thought so, too, but when I asked her if she’d prefer not
to marry the marquis, she burst into tears and swore that she desired to be his
wife above all things.”

Well, thought Letty, at least the chit hadn’t gone daft.

“I think,” Eglantyne said, leaning toward Letty, “I think it’s
the Sheffields.”

“How so?”

“They’ve already made it clear how low Hugh is stooping to
marry Angela. I hesitate to make any accusations, but it seems to me that his
mama has found every excuse by which to keep Hugh away from The Hollies and at
her side.

“Don’t misunderstand me, I don’t pretend to know anything
about High Society, Lady Agatha, but surely it is a bit unusual for the groom
not to spend any time visiting his future in-laws at their home?”

Was it?
“Ah, well... not necessarily,” Letty said
cautiously.

“Really?” Eglantyne fell on her words. “You give me hope.
And,” she went on as though to herself, “it is true that Hugh is coming at the
end of the month, and his family has answered my latest invitation by promising
to arrive shortly thereafter.”

Letty smiled brightly. “Seems right as rain to me.”

Eglantyne looked at her hopefully. “Hugh
is
most
attentive to Angela. He writes to her daily. Though lately she doesn’t seem so
eager to read his letters.” Her face fell. “I think it might worry Angela that
they’ll find us provincial and that we’ll feel badly for it. Or they’ll think
the wedding reception is shabby. Or we are shabby. We simply can’t appear
second-rate! You must help us, Lady Agatha.”

She held out her hand appealingly. She spoke so earnestly, her
expression filled with such an odd mixture of affection, tenderness, and
frustration, that it quite touched Letty’s heart.

She gave herself a mental shake. She was getting soppy; she
must be nearing her monthlies.

“Of course, I will,” Letty said, disconcerted by these
surprising treacly feelings. “Rather than worry about whether your Angela is
good enough for the Sheffields, you might better concern yourself with whether
the Sheffields are good enough for her.”

At this mild suggestion, Eglantyne’s eye widened and she
clasped her broad hands across her chest. “I never thought of it that way, Lady
Agatha! I can see why you are so successful. You are a paragon as well as a
confidante and adviser. If only...” Eglantyne trailed off wistfully.

“If only what?” Letty prompted, in full charity with this
unexpectedly canny woman.

“I couldn’t possibly impose.”

“I am not a falsely proud woman, Miss Bigglesworth,” Letty
said. “I should not hesitate to remind you that I am here in the capacity of
your employee.”

Instead of encouraging Eglantyne, Letty’s words seemed to have
the opposite effect; her pink and powdered countenance crumpled in misery.
“You’re right. I could never take advantage of a situation in which my position
is in any manner superior to your own.”

Letty sighed. Gads, but the rich made things needlessly
difficult! “Then perhaps as a new
friend,
I can encourage you to ask
what you will.”

“Oh, thank you!” Eglantyne clasped Letty’s hands fervently.
“It’s just that, as one so close in age to Angela, and being a woman of the
world, I was hoping that you might counsel Angela. Such advice would be invaluable
to her. For
you
to give her the benefit of your experience and wisdom
would be a gift that I, poor little country spinster mouse that I am, could
never offer.”

Her?
What would she say to the girl? She’d never been
married. In fact, she’d never even—Well, no one ever said that women of the
world had to be
fast.

She looked at Eglantyne. The older woman was regarding her
anxiously. Ah, hell. What could it hurt to say she’d advise the girl? She
wouldn’t be here long enough to do the kid any lasting harm. Might even do her
some good to hear a few frank facts. Letty capitulated with a deep inner sigh.

“Why, Miss Bigglesworth,” she said, “of course. I will be only
too happy to advise her in any small way that I might.”

“How ever can I thank you? You are an inspiration!”
Eglantyne’s gaze traveled over Letty’s person. “Why, one has only to look at
you to realize that you are your own woman, Lady Agatha, and piffle to anyone
who tries to tell you how to behave or how to live.”

“True,” Letty allowed, flattered.

“You
don’t let convention and small-mindedness govern
your life,” Eglantyne went on, warming to her subject.

“Righto,” Letty said.

“You don’t give a fig what people say about how you dress or
act!”

“You bet I—” Letty stopped.
She didn’t?
She should.
Lady Agatha would. “What do you mean?”

“Well, most ladies wouldn’t
dream
of wearing something
so interesting. Nor would they be so devil-may-care, if you’ll excuse the term.
I imagine you’ll cause quite a stir in our little community when you appear in
that gown.”

“Really? The ladies will talk?”

“Yes. Enviously,” Eglantyne said.

“And do you think the gentlemen will approve?”

“I dare say so!”

“Even... Sir Elliot?”

“Oh.” Eglantyne considered. “Well, Sir Elliot is a different
kettle of fish, isn’t he?”

“Is he?” Letty asked.

“He is,” Eglantyne confided, “a very private man. Not that he
isn’t amiable. Indeed, Sir Elliot is everything one could ask in a gentleman.
He’d never let a lady’s appearance affect his opinion of her.”

Letty stared at Eglantyne to see if she was joking. She
wasn’t. The old dear really believed it. “Sir Elliot is a man, is he not?”

“Oh, yes,” Eglantyne said wistfully. If she were just twenty
years younger...

“Then, believe me, Miss Bigglesworth, his interest in a lady
is most definitely affected by how she looks. No man, gentleman or not—”

“Miss Bigglesworth?” The butler’s voice interrupted them.

“Ah, Cabot.” Eglantyne turned toward the door with a little
whoosh of relief. She wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to hear what Lady Agatha
had been about to disclose about men. “Would you please see that Grace makes
some fresh coffee for Lady Agatha?”

She turned to ask Lady Agatha’s preferences. As she did, Lady
Agatha’s little doggie Lambikins sauntered in from the hallway and, as though
these exertions were quite enough for one morning, sat down squarely on Cabot’s
foot.

“Just give him a nudge,” Lady Agatha said, lowering her gaze
at Lambikins. “He’ll—” She looked at Cabot and abruptly stopped speaking. Her
eyes grew round.

Cabot, imperturbable stone-faced Cabot, swallowed audibly.

“Cabot?” Eglantyne asked. Whatever was going on? Cabot looked
as though he’d seen a ghost. “I say, Cabot, are you quite all right?”

“Quite all right, madam,” Cabot said. “Do you require anything
else?”

Eglantyne looked askance at Lady Agatha. She had recovered
from whatever had momentarily nonplussed her. “If there are any strawberries?”
she asked demurely.

“Very good, madam.” Cabot said. “Will there be anything else,
Miss Bigglesworth?”

“Yes,” Eglantyne said, seized by a sudden inspiration. There
was no time like the present to get things rolling along between Lady Agatha
and Angela. “Cabot, would you fetch Miss Angela at—”

“Ahem.”

Eglantyne turned toward Lady Agatha. “Yes?”

“Might I suggest that you bring her here yourself, Miss Bigglesworth?
It will give you an opportunity to lay the groundwork, so to speak, for our
little chat.” She glanced at the stoically waiting Cabot.

“A fine idea, Lady Agatha,” Eglantyne agreed, rising. “I’ll
get her directly.”

As she passed Cabot, he turned to follow her out of the room.
But then she heard Lady Agatha say, “Oh, don’t run off yet,
Cabot.”

The past keeps showing up

wearing new makeup.

“IS IT REALLY YOU, SAMMY?” LETTY PEERED AT the portly,
stern-looking butler in amazement.

“Yes, Letty. It’s me,” he said, his voice hushed with
astonishment.

And then she was across the room, flinging her arms around him
and hugging him tightly. He returned her embrace awkwardly, a man unaccustomed
to demonstrations of affection. She chuckled. The same old Sammy.

The last time she’d seen him had been a half dozen years ago
when Veda and Alf had been working the Saturday variety acts at the Palace
Theatre. They’d known all the other performers from years past— including
Sammy, who’d knocked about the “human oddities” shows for years as Sam-Sam, The
Spaniel-Faced Boy, Nature’s Fantastic Amalgamation of Characteristics Both
Canine and Human.

She smiled into his shoulder. One would never tell by looking
at him now, but at one time his face had been covered with dense fur. But
now... she lifted her head and regarded the furiously blushing butler
delightedly. By gum! The Spaniel-Faced Boy had a receding hairline!

“Letty Potts,” Sammy exhaled taking a step back and clasping
her shoulders. For a moment his expression was as soft and pleased as her own
and then the pleasure dimmed and his smile faded. “Whatever are you doing here?
And why are you posing as Lady Agatha? Where
is
Lady Agatha?”

“Hush!” She darted behind him and hurriedly pulled the door
shut. “Come across the room and I’ll tell you.”

The butler followed her slowly. “Last thing I heard about you,
Letty, you’d taken up with that no-account Nick Sparkle.” Worry supplanted his
earlier pleasure. “I warn you, Letty, if this is one of his schemes to bilk people—”

“No one’s going to bilk anyone!” Letty said, waving her hand
to quiet him.

He didn’t look convinced. Which hurt. Sammy and she had once
been friends.

Indeed, she’d sharpened her impersonation of a lady on his
suggestions, since Sammy, when not snarling and feinting at the enthralled
women in the first row, had always comported himself as a first-class
gentleman. Or rather, first-class butler, she now realized.

She’d never inquired about how he’d come by his impeccable
deportment—those who made their living on the stage didn’t ask too closely
after another’s past.

“What happened, Sammy, er, Cabot? Where’s all your... your—”

“Fur?”

“Yes. I didn’t recognize you. And what’s with the butler act?”

“It’s not an act,” Cabot said. “My father served the Earl of
Prescott as a butler, Letty. From the time I could toddle, my dad raised me to
be a butler like him.”

At Letty’s querying expression, he chuckled. “I wasn’t born
covered with hair, you know. But the closer I got to adolescence, the hairier I
grew. It soon became apparent that my physical appearance would keep me from
following in my father’s footsteps. So I came to London where I found work in
the music halls. And that’s where I met your mother and stepfather. It was a
good enough life,” he said, a nostalgic gleam in his eyes. “But as the years
went by, my hair started to fall out. Got to the point where I had to glue fur
on to make myself look like my posters. Finally, about four years ago, I had to
quit the stage altogether.”

“I’m sorry,” Letty said softly.

Cabot looked at her in surprise. “I’m not. I could finally
look for work as a butler. I applied at several of the employment agencies but
few people wanted a fifty-year-old butler with no work experience. Then, one
day I was interviewed by this dear, unsophisticated woman wanting to hire ‘a
real London butler’ for her brother up north. I gave her Lord Prescott’s name
as a recommendation, and ... well, here I am.”

“And you enjoy it?” Letty asked curiously. “Don’t you miss the
city, the lights, your old mates?”

“Not too much,” he said. “Though I still trade letters with
Benny,” he said, referring to Ben Black, The Human Dynamo. “I have everything I
want, Letty. I have the respect of my peers—at least, most of them—the care of
a fine home, and most importantly, I am able to do what I was brought up to
do.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “I envy you, Cabot.”

He cocked his head quizzically. “How so?”

“You know what you are. It seems you’ve always known.”

“Well, Letty, you know who you are, too,” he offered kindly.

She shook her head. “Who I am. But not
what.”

“Why, Letty,” Cabot said, casting about for an answer to her
unvoiced question. “You’re ... you’re ... the best time the English stage has
ever known, that’s what you are! No one could make folks tap their toes or
smile like you did, Letty.”

“A good time,” she whispered. “Is that what I am?” She met his
eye. “Well, I’m afraid I’m not even that, anymore. Leastways there’s certain
people in London who wouldn’t think so.”

“Nick Sparkle being to blame?” Cabot asked flatly.

She wasn’t about to accuse Nick of those things she’d done, or
been party to, of her own free will. If she had it all to do over again, she’d
do the same. Or would she? The prickly question posed by her conscience caused
her to lift her chin defiantly. She’d done what she’d done and she wasn’t going
to start apologizing now.

“I won’t talk about Nick. You only need know that he’s not
here and he’s not coming here. Other than that, the subject’s closed.” She
forced a smile to her lips. “I still can’t believe you like rusticating up here
in the midst of nowhere.”