The Conqueror's Dilemma (8 page)

If it had not been for Lady
Drumbeg’s determination to pursue an ambition Tiffany could not share, she
would welcome the opportunity to be presented to the Conqueror, only so that
she need not again be subjected to a like treatment. But Eva could not be
trusted. Once she had access to Mr Westerham there was no saying where it would
end.

Tiffany shivered at the thought
of the mortifications she would be obliged to endure. No, it was far better to
hope the morning call upon Mrs Membury might pass without his putting in an
appearance. It must surely be possible to get through the requisite fifteen
minutes without incident.

But as the hackney approached
closer to Brook Street, Tiffany’s discomfort increased and she began to hope
Ariadne Membury would prove to be “not at home”. After all, she had not wished
for the visit, that much was clear. She had only to instruct her butler to
discourage the unwelcome callers. If there was any point of etiquette Tiffany
had been forced to absorb, it was this convenience. It was open to any hostess
to refuse admittance, and Tiffany had waited with Lady Drumbeg outside the
homes of the great on far too many occasions only to be told the lady of the
house was not at home. And this after they had seen other callers enter
unhindered.

Tiffany almost preferred to
endure this humiliation once more than to run the risk of Eva gaining
acquaintance with the Conqueror.

It was not to be. The hackney
halted, and Tiffany was obliged to alight. Lady Drumbeg, evidently not as
confident as she made out, requested the driver to wait and trod up the front
steps. Tiffany remained upon the pavement, a regrettable thumping in her chest
as she watched her chaperon beat a rapid tattoo with the door knocker.

There was scarcely any delay
before a superior individual opened the door and enquired their business.

‘Lady Drumbeg and Miss Felton to
call upon Mrs Membury,’ came the fluent announcement.

Tiffany’s heart was in her mouth,
but the butler bowed and held wide the door. She watched Lady Drumbeg dismiss the
cab and then the beckoning finger commanded her attendance. There was no help
for it. The visit would have to be gone through.

‘How do you do?’

Mrs Membury’s greeting was
cordial enough, but Tiffany, her nerves stretched to breaking point, could not
help but recognise a lack of the unaffected warmth that had characterised their
hostess in the British Museum—before discovering under whose chaperonage
Tiffany had come out.

‘Pray take a seat, ma’am.’

Oh, she was cold to the point of
rudeness. Why was Lady Drumbeg so unwelcome? She watched Eva take the indicated
chair, and instinctively looked for one at a distance. Without thinking, she
sat down just as Mrs Membury turned towards her.

‘Yes, that’s right, dear, make
yourself at home.’

Tiffany’s cheeks grew hot and she
shot out of the chair as if propelled. Her hostess’s eyes abruptly took on the
remembered look of mischievous amusement, and she came swiftly up to Tiffany,
the train of her Pomona-green muslin floating behind her.

‘I meant it, silly child,’ she
said under her breath. ‘Sit down and be comfortable.’

Pushed with some force, Tiffany
plumped back down, gazing in an agony of uncertainty up into the other’s face.
Mrs Membury laughed out and looked back towards Eva.

‘Your protégée is a true
innocent, Lady Drumbeg.’

Tiffany shot a look towards her
duenna, and despair gripped her as she noted the glitter in Eva’s eyes and the
tight-lipped smile.

‘How sagacious in you to see it,
Mrs Membury. I must say I delight in girls who lack artifice and guile, do not you?’

Unlike her duenna, Tiffany might
have said. Eva’s sycophantic attitude was nauseating. Mrs Membury took her own
seat, arranging the folds of her Turkish robe with an insouciance Tiffany
frankly envied. The elegance of the long sleeved gown, adorned with lace edging
and closed low across the bosom with a ribbon tie, could not but contrast
favourably against Lady Drumbeg’s overblown spotted confection, draped with
sashes and shawls. Tiffany’s unrest increased as her duenna let her gaze wander
about the saloon.

‘What a pleasant room, Mrs
Membury. I always have loved the application of stripes in furnishings. So bold
a pattern. And the gilt just sets it off.’

If anything were needed to assure
their hostess of the guest’s insincerity, this must achieve it. Tiffany had
toured warehouses enough to know at a glance there had been no re-upholstering
for years to the old-fashioned Chippendale furniture, done out in faded crimson
damask, it’s thin white stripes rubbed in too many places, the gilding worn
away. She saw freshness only in the walls, done out in pale green using the
current fad for washing colour over a suitable base. The old wallpaper had
likely been as lurid a crimson as must have graced the chairs and sofa in their
heyday. Small wonder Mrs Membury looked anything but pleased with the
compliment.

‘Why, thank you, ma’am,’ she
stated coolly, but Tiffany noted the smile did not reach her eyes.

Desperate to salvage what she
might of a rapidly deteriorating situation, she rushed into speech, changing
the subject altogether.

‘Did you admire the marbles, Mrs
Membury? At the museum, I mean.’

A trace of the old animation
returned. ‘Faith, I found them hideous! It is perfectly idiotic that we are all
expected to go into raptures over such things merely because they are ancient.
But of course one had to go. Essential to keep up.’ Mischief entered her voice.
‘How shocking if one had to admit to not having seen them when everyone else
was raving about them.’

About to reply, Tiffany was
forestalled.

‘I do so agree, Mrs Membury,’ cut
in Lady Drumbeg.

Her tone was unctuous, and
Tiffany prayed her duenna’s evil genius would not heap up the coals of fire
beneath her.

‘It is precisely what I have been
drumming into my little friend’s head. But young ladies so seldom realise how
important it is to be beforehand with the fashion.’

Ariadne turned towards her. ‘Do
you think so? For my part, I find them all too apt to be avid for anything
modish. Especially when it comes to being noticed by persons who may assist
their ambition to be thought of the first stare.’

Tiffany felt herself flushing,
and a tattoo started up in her chest. Could such a barb fail to pierce its
mark? She saw no trace of it in Eva’s face. The false smile remained pinned to
her mouth.

‘Oh, if we are to talk of modes.
There is no preventing a debutante from wishing to peacock about in the most
unsuitable garments. With the best will in the world to indulge them, however,
one cannot allow them to fly in the face of convention. But there I must praise
Tiffany. She is ever obedient to my advice in the matter of her dress, and I am
persuaded no young lady could be more modest in her taste.’

It was a masterly deflection,
although Tiffany detected the brittle note underneath. Mrs Membury looked to be
taken aback. Tiffany became conscious as her hostess subjected her ensemble to
inspection. She could not help twitching at the blue spencer over her muslin
gown, and the blue ribbon tying the simple chip hat under her chin felt
suddenly tight.

‘Very suitable,’ said her hostess
at last, with a swift little smile that calmed Tiffany a trifle. ‘And the blue
brings out your eyes.’

‘Exactly what I told her.’

Oh, had she indeed? When Tiffany
had been obliged to fight against being decked out in pink or yellow pastels.

‘Make use of what assets you have
has always been my motto.’

‘Well, I certainly agree with
that,’ said Mrs Membury. ‘All the same, I am glad I have only boys, for I
should imagine the hazards of bringing out a debutante are legion.’

Tiffany pounced upon this,
anxious to change the subject. ‘Did you never wish for a girl?’

‘I yearned for a girl,’ came the
laughing response. ‘I still do, if the truth be told. But my doctors tell me I
am not particularly fertile, and since my youngest is eight already with no sign
of any more, I am inclined to believe them.’

‘How many children have you?’

‘I have three sons, much to the
delight of my husband.’ The peal of laughter that had so much warmth rang from
her. ‘Dear me, that sounds as if I am not equally delighted. Believe me, I dote
on the boys and miss them a great deal.’

This was something Tiffany could
appreciate. ‘I know just how you feel. At least, not quite that, for of course
I have not a mother’s devotion. But I have always been excessively fond of my
cousins. They are like my brothers, you know, and it grieved me to be parted
from them.’

‘Tiffany, I can’t think Mrs
Membury is in the least interested in your relations,’ snapped Lady Drumbeg.
And to their hostess, ‘I know you will forgive her, but she has an objectionable
habit of running on in this way.’

Fully aware of the reason for
Eva’s intervention, Tiffany swallowed the instant rise of indignation. How she
hated to be saddled with the relentless do’s and don’ts. This one in
particular. Why had she to act as if she were ashamed of all she knew and
loved?

‘For heaven’s sake, girl, keep a
still tongue in your head,’  was the oft-repeated warning, a constant burr
of distress upon her troubled conscience. ‘If anyone should get wind of Mr
Felton’s business interests, you’ll kiss goodbye to any hope of becoming
settled. Believe me, there ain’t nothing more fatal to your chances than to
have it known you’ve an uncle in trade.’

Since she had no reason to
suppose Ariadne Membury to be more forgiving than others of her circle, the
reminder was timely, if painful. Nothing felt more natural to her than to
parade her pride in Dick and Joe, who had followed their father into the
shipping business.

It occurred to her belatedly that
she had already given it out to their hostess that Uncle Matt was a ship owner.
Had Mrs Membury turned from her in disgust? No, she had not. But the triumph
was short-lived. No doubt she had assumed the Feltons were not actually
involved in the business. There were gentry enough who owned ships, she knew,
for Uncle Matt had dealings with a number of them.

‘They’ll take the brass all
right,’ she had heard him say, ‘but they won’t dirty their hands, not your
gentry.’

But Mrs Membury, when Tiffany
took courage to look at her again, apparently had her attention fixed upon
other matters, for she was staring at a gold case clock on the mantelshelf.

‘Speaking of brothers, I had
expected mine to call this morning. But Hector is never to be relied upon for
punctuality.’ A gleam entered her eye—was it of malice or mischief?—as she
turned it upon Lady Drumbeg. ‘However, I may be maligning him. If he did call
and Northwick told him there was a young lady here, he may well have left again
on the instant. Hector lives in dread of matchmakers.’

Tiffany stiffened. Was she
supposed to be on the catch for Lord Kilbride? The hint had been directed at
her chaperon, but it clearly applied also to herself. Her liking for Mrs
Membury began to fade. If Uncle Matt truly believed she could be happy in this
milieu, subject to suspicions and insults of this nature, then he knew nothing
of the world he would thrust her into. Perhaps Mama’s expulsion had not been as
unfortunate as she had supposed.

Before any answer could be made,
a sound filtered up from below stairs. It must be the door knocker. Another
visitor? Then her purgatory was at an end. They had not been here all of their
allotted fifteen minutes, but it was bad form to remain when another morning
caller came in. Perhaps it was Lord Kilbride, after all. At least nothing had been
said of the Conqueror.

Anxious to be gone, Tiffany
forgot protocol and rose to her feet. ‘I am afraid we must be going.’

She saw Mrs Membury look to her
chaperon and her cheeks suffused. It was not her place to announce their
departure. On the other hand, Eva was not rising. A dagger look came Tiffany’s
way. She stood irresolute. Why could not Mrs Membury encourage them to go? She
could not wish them to remain when another visitor was upon the doorstep.

Lady Drumbeg directed a fierce
nodding gesture towards her indicating she should reseat herself. Aware of her
hostess’s cool glance, and feeling much like a jack-in-the-box, Tiffany sat
down again.

Footsteps were clearly ascending
the stairs. Agonised, Tiffany cast a beseeching look at Eva, but her chaperon
steadfastly avoided her eye, obviously determined not to budge. The butler
entered the room.

‘Mr Westerham.’

Tiffany sprang to her feet again.
‘Oh, no!’ Realising she was giving herself away, she tried to retrieve her
slip. ‘I mean—should we not be going, ma’am?’

But the Conqueror was already in
the room, bowing to his hostess. Tiffany dared not look at him, but she could
not help noticing the smile of welcome—and was it relief?—sweeping across Mrs
Membury’s features. Desperate, she looked across at her duenna. Eva rejected
her silent plea, against all convention remaining seated when etiquette
demanded she take her leave. Tiffany felt ready to faint with embarrassment.

Mrs Membury rescued her. In the
same voice of cold politeness with which she had first accepted the promise of
a morning call, she made it impossible for Lady Drumbeg to ignore her.

‘Pray don’t let me detain you,
ma’am. I know you have other calls to make.’

Tiffany could see the reluctance
in Eva’s face, but there was nothing for it but to go. For once the rules
loomed large in Tiffany’s mind, for she knew there was no obligation upon her
hostess even to mention their names to the newcomer. She hoped Mrs Membury
would elect not to exercise the prerogative permitting her to make any introductions
she wished.

Seeing her chaperon at last come
to her feet, Tiffany breathed an inward sigh of relief and turned to go. Now
she could not avoid glancing at Mr Westerham, catching a flash of his
well-fitting green coat. He was precisely in her way, but he stepped to one
side without so much as indicating her presence with a nod. It was what he had
said he would do, but a feeling of renewed hurt rose up in her chest, despite
her urgent desire to be gone.