Mattie stammered, "I— You are thinking, of course, that I would not recognize the signs, and perhaps you are right. All I can say is that he makes little attempt to keep her attention, and I should think— " She faltered, then continued more firmly, "I want her to marry someone who cannot be happy without her."
"Well, then— " Gilly straightened her shoulders— "we must do what we can to make him realize that she is much too young to make him happy."
"Fine. But how?"
"You must make him feel the difference in their ages. Perhaps it has been wrong to keep them apart, when if he spent any time with her, he would see at once that they are not suited for each other. From all you say of Lord Westbury, I would suspect him to be a man of sophisticated tastes, whereas Pamela only thinks of her stables."
"You mean, let him call on her?"
"Yes, in measure. And I should be there as chaperon. I cannot think that his lordship will find it entertaining to be calling on a schoolgirl and her governess, not when compared to the pleasures of Town."
Mattie considered, and a ray of hope lightened her heart. "You could be right."
"Yes, I believe I am. Then, you might think of something else, some manner of bringing home to him, as nothing else would, the difference in their ages."
"Like what?" Mattie listened eagerly.
"Like . . ." Gilly paused. "Like giving a rout."
"A rout!" Mattie squeaked. "Me?"
"Yes." Gilly spoke more confidently now. "A man of Lord Westbury's experience should find it quite flat to be engaged for a children's party. When he sees how tame the amusements are— and especially the refreshments— that should cure him of his intent."
"But how would I ever go about doing such a thing?"
"I will help you. I remember some of the parties my first employer gave for her children. Many years ago, of course, but I doubt that children's amusements have changed much since that time." Gilly laughed, then added with a touch of deviousness, "We shall serve nothing but lemonade and orgeat."
"But who would come? I don't know anyone."
"You could invite the young people in the neighborhood. I daresay Mrs. Puckeridge could help you with a list."
Mattie's cheeks had paled with the first mention of a party, and now she spoke in a tone of panic, "She would probably love such a thing. But I don't know. Do you think we could manage it? What if no one came? What if they all came and were bored?"
Gilly looked at her firmly. "You are a duchess, my dear. Of course, people will come, and young people are never bored when they are placed in a room all together."
"They're not?" Mattie looked up at her and flushed. "I suppose you are right, but since I never . . . ."
"You may take my word for it. The planning will be relatively easy. And this will be good practice for you before Pamela's presentation."
Mattie reflected unhappily for a moment. Then she conceded finally, "Yes, it would. It would be far better to get my feet wet here than in London."
"That's the spirit," Gilly said.
"But— " another thought had occurred to cast her in the dumps— "it will never work. I could never persuade Barlow to help me. He will say the staff is not big enough."
"You must insist upon it. He can always hire extra help from the village, or perhaps some of your neighbors would be willing to lend a few of their servants for the evening."
"Do you think they would?"
"I should think that if you make it known that the Duchess of Upavon is having a rout, and intending to invite their sons and daughters, your neighbors will be only too glad to help."
Mattie took a shakey breath. "Yes, you're right, of course." She looked Gilly timidly in the eye and confessed, "It is simply that I never have felt much like a duchess."
"Yes, my dear, I know." Gilly rose and came over to place a warm hand upon Mattie's shoulder. "But you are a duchess, and for Pamela's sake, you must begin to act like one."
Mattie covered Gilly's hand with her own and nodded. "Yes. Once again, you are right."
Inhaling deeply, she rose to her feet. "Very well. I shall give a rout. Now, what shall we do first? Do you suppose— Oh, dear!"
"Now what?"
"Do you think they will expect to dance? I have forgotten how, and Pamela never has been taught."
"Then, it is time to engage a dancing master. I shall enquire about one directly."
Mattie's blue eyes softened as she gazed upon her old governess. "Oh, Gilly. Where would I be without you?"
"You would do just as well without me, I daresay."
"No," Mattie said decisively. "I would not."
* * * *
It was no more than a day later that Mrs. Puckeridge, the rector's wife, while scolding the kitchen maid for spoiling the perfectly good leg of mutton she had intended for dinner, heard the sound of carriage wheels upon the drive. Looking out a window, she was astonished to see the traveling coach of the Duchess of Upavon pulling up in front of the rectory. An ancient coachman unbent himself from the box, lowered himself slowly to the ground, and hobbled around to the carriage door.
He handed out not only Her Grace's companion— a woman who, Mrs. Puckeridge considered, acted far above her station— but also the duchess herself, dressed for a morning call.
In a sudden flurry, Mrs. Puckeridge dismissed the kitchenmaid, then frantically called her back and adjured her in a loud whisper to ready the tea tray and not to make a muck of things this time. That order given, she ran to a mirror to tidy her hair and smooth her dress, thinking all the while what a
coup
this was.
She knew for a fact that the Duchess of Upavon had neither originated calls nor returned those from her neighbours— not even the calls from Lady Westbury herself. Mrs. Puckeridge had spent a cosy hour with her ladyship only the day before in which they had discussed Her Grace's deficiencies in this respect at length.
She knew that Lady Westbury would be particularly irked to discover that Her Grace had chosen one of her humbler neighbours on whom to confer this honour, and she could not wait to be the bearer of such tidings to her ladyship.
By the time the bell was pulled, she had composed herself in an attitude of virtuous leisure in her parlour, to appear as if she had been stitching there all morning. When the guests were ushered in, she could set down the altar cloth she was hemming and appear surprised.
"Your Grace." Mrs. Puckeridge swooped her the deep curtsey she had practiced for days on first learning of the duchess's arrival in the vicinity and had subsequently had so little occasion to use. She gave a chilly nod to Miss Fotheringill, who accepted the greeting with a gentle smile.
Mattie noticed the hint of amusement in Gilly's eyes and decided not to let Mrs. Puckeridge's obsequious behaviour discommode her. They had come for a purpose, and she could not complain of her hostess's behaviour when her own motives for calling were far from noble. She accepted the chair Mrs. Puckeridge offered and looked to Gilly to help her through the preliminaries.
Mattie had no practice in making small talk, and she had insisted that Gilly accompany her to help her with this part of her mission. She needn't have worried, for Mrs. Puckeridge, with her incurable nosiness, was quite capable of filling the void with impertinent questions of her own.
It was not long before she touched upon Lady Pamela, and wondered aloud why Her Grace had not thought to bring her daughter to meet one of her own, so that Mattie was soon able to jump in with her plans for the rout.
As soon as the rector's wife heard that the Duchess of Upavon would be eager to give a party for her daughter if she were not so woefully new to the neighborhood that she did not quite know where to begin, Mrs. Puckeridge leapt to offer her services.
Yes, she said delightedly, she would be more than happy to help with the guest list, and to prove her capability on that score, she gave a rapid, though incomplete rundown of the neighbouring families with children of a suitable age. She made a mental note to herself to write her own son immediately and insist that he come down from Oxford to attend the rout.
When dancing was mentioned, she said she fancied Monsieur Le Gros, an émigrée in the High Street, could be applied to for lessons in all the most up-to-date steps. And, she said, if Her Grace would not be offended by the suggestion, she could recommend both a caterer, to supply excellent food and drink, as well as several girls— virtuous, hardworking girls— who might be taken on as extra servants if needed.
By the time Mattie left, accompanied by Gilly, Mrs. Puckeridge had solved all the most pressing problems of the rout and Mattie could relax in part, knowing at least, what steps she had to take.
She left Mrs. Puckeridge up in the boughs, for that lady, after suffering a series of rebuffs at Her Grace's door, had begun to relinquish her long-cherished dream of becoming the duchess's primary confidante. Now, with one stroke, her ambition had been restored, and for several moments after her guests' departure, she could only stare at the door that had closed behind them with a smile upon her face.
Emerging from this glowing reverie, she suffered an immediate burst of dissatisfaction at finding herself alone. She knew that her morning would be quite ruined if she could not impart her bit of gossip to someone who, as a result of learning the extent of her involvement in the duchess's scheme, would be eaten up by envy.
Putting aside the plans for her morning's work, she took up her cloak and ordered up the gig to make a call on Lady Westbury.
Her ladyship's reaction to the news was not entirely what she'd anticipated, although for one brief, blessed moment, Mrs. Puckeridge could detect a touch of resentment in her ladyship's eyes. Then, Lady Westbury recovered herself and assumed an expression of great secrecy and importance.
"This is no more than to be expected," her ladyship stated, folding her hands tidily in her lap. "Not but what I should have expected the duchess to call upon me if she had need of particular guidance in a social matter, which I daresay she must. However, considering the likely reason for her sudden decision to entertain, I can quite see why she hesitated to apply to me. The answer is entirely obvious."
"Oh?" Mrs. Puckeridge was finding herself once again on the out, which she could not like. But it would be just
like
Lady Westbury to attempt to undercut her accomplishment. "Is there some particular reason why she would hesitate to come to you for assistance?"
Lady Westbury smiled smugly. "I am not at liberty to say, but you must know that my son, Westbury, has been calling upon Lady Pamela. His attentions have been most assiduous over the past few weeks. He has been teaching her how to drive his phaeton— though why any gel would wish to know how to drive such a dangerous vehicle I cannot imagine. And I know, besides, that she has applied to both my sons for advice concerning the use of her pasturage."
"I see . . . " Mrs. Puckeridge said in a tone designed to invite confidence.
"I see that you do." Lady Westbury beamed upon her inferior with satisfaction. "It would be too early for me to speak openly, but I can congratulate myself on being the instigator of this particular match. It only took a hint from me for Westbury to see the advantages to himself and to his family. Westbury Manor, as you must know, from its name if from nothing else, once formed a part of his patrimony, and it has always seemed to me a crime that it should no longer be. Since Lady Pamela inherited, it seemed the perfect opportunity to replace it where it belongs."
"I see." Mrs. Puckeridge said again, but she wondered to herself if the duchess did. She filed away this bit of information as something that might be useful to her at a later date. She could not believe that Her Grace of Upavon was aware of Lord Westbury's machinations, and as prime confidante, the post she now expected to obtain, she had a duty to watch out for her friend's interests.
Now that Lady Westbury, in spite of her best intentions, had let the cat out of the bag, she could not restrain herself from talking about the possibility of the match. It was not long either before her dissatisfaction with the duchess rose to the surface.
"She is a shatterbrain," Lady Westbury said. "It is no wonder that poor Lady Pamela has been left to grow-up quite wild. Not that I fault the child in the least! No, she is a charming gel— Westbury said so himself upon meeting her — and it will please me to have the governing of her. I almost begin to think it will be a love match. A mother notices these things, and I must say there is rather an air about him— "
She gave herself a brisk shake and continued stiffly, "But I do not approve of such things, as I told Westbury. I am simply content that he saw fit to heed my advice, for I have to admit that he has not always. And I have advised him not to let it worry him that the gel's mother is such an eccentric. The old duke was one, so it's to be expected that his relic would be."
Lady Westbury's nostrils flared with distaste. "Still, one cannot but wonder why she insists upon carrying on as if the polite world were not a fit place for her existence."
Mrs. Puckeridge allowed Lady Westbury to rattle on while she stored away her bits of gossip. Though her ladyship had denied her the full pleasure of imparting her news, she still had the satisfaction of learning the true state of affairs from Lady Westbury herself.
Who would have thought that a gentleman of Lord Westbury's stature would marry a girl over such a small piece of land?
* * * *
News of the Duchess of Upavon's proposed rout swept through the neighbourhood so rapidly, that it was generally known long before the actual invitations were sent out. Many bets on the likelihood of its really occurring had even been placed
William heard the news with interest. He received it almost simultaneously with discovering a change in Mattie's policy for receiving visitors.
He had made it his practice to call at the house before searching for Mattie in her garden. Barlow's attempts to dissuade him were so blatant that William had at once perceived their usefulness as a weathervane to gauge his progress, and he was gratified one morning to find that the door was no longer barred to him.