The Frost Fair (16 page)

For a long moment they both fell silent. Meg, while still deploring his tendency to belittle her sex, could nevertheless recognize how difficult it must have been for him to move from the masculine world of the battlefield to the female-dominated one of his London household. Now that she understood the causes of his bitterness, she could no longer maintain the feelings of resentment she'd marshalled against him. “You make me ashamed of myself, Geoffrey. I should never have tried to interfere.”

He gave her a rather twisted smile. “Then you admit that there
is
another side to Trixie's complaint?”

“Yes, but, Geoffrey, I can't say you've completely won me over in that regard. Wouldn't it be better to permit Trixie to marry this fellow? Perhaps the responsibilities of wedlock will settle her down and help her to mature?”

“I would truly be delighted to see my sister wed. But her concept of an appropriate spouse is completely impossible. Go and see for yourself.”

“What?” Meg looked at him in bewilderment. “What do you mean? Now?”

“Yes, right now. I'll have Hackett take you to the Habish party at once. It's still not too late for you to salvage
some
part of this evening. And you'll be able to judge with your own eyes if Mortimer Lazenby is a proper sort of suitor for my sister.”

Meg was aware of a sinking feeling of disappointment. She'd been intently absorbed and very content in his company. She had no wish to leave now. “Will you … come with me?” she asked.

“What for? Once you see Mortimer Lazenby for yourself, you'll be as assiduous as I would have been in keeping them apart. There's no need for me to go at all.” He gave her one of his quick, unexpected grins. “I'll send the footman along to carry you.”

She made one last attempt to salvage the evening. “I'd rather not go anymore tonight, Geoffrey. How can I explain to Lady Habish—?”

“There's nothing to explain. You need only say that you are feeling better. They'll be overjoyed to welcome you. Come, my dear. In addition to my guilt for having kept
you
away from the festivities for more than an hour, I feel guilty for depriving my good neighbors of the sight of you. We can't permit you to have donned that magnificient gown for the benefit of my eyes alone. Go along and show yourself to the others. It would be a shame for so much loveliness to go to waste.”

It was not until she'd been bundled into the carriage and was trundling over the remaining mounds of snow covering the road toward the Habish residence that she realized that there had been a sharp barb hidden in his apparent compliment on her appearance.
Had
her “loveliness” been wasted on him? Had she dressed herself in her most enticing gown, drenched herself in her most seductive perfume and spent the better part of an hour applying the most subtle colors to her eyes and cheeks for nothing?
Dash it, Geoffrey Carrier
, she asked herself angrily,
what must I do to win your admiration
—
put on a uniform and volunteer for battle?

Chapter Eleven

Lady Habish's guests were still seated at the dinner table when Meg made her late and awkward entrance, hopping in on one shod foot while she leaned heavily on the arm of an overdressed footman so that she could keep the injured, stockinged foot off the ground. Blushing with embarrassment and exertion, she made excuses for her late arrival, but the warmth of her reception and the genuine excitement she seemed to stir among the assemblage soon put her at ease. Before she knew it, she'd been helped into the seat in the place of honor at Lord Habish's right and found herself surrounded by servants eager to heap up her plate.

Lady Habish might not have been one of London's
ton
, but her table was set with crystal and plate that would have done justice to any of them. Her servants numbered in the dozens, their livery impressive and their manner flawless. As for the food, it was equal to the most lavish of London dinners. Meg had missed the first course, but the second contained as many as nine different meats, four fishes, a dazzling array of side dishes and at least fifteen varieties of biscuits and pastries.

Lord Habish, a florid, white-whiskered man in his fifties, fixed his attentions on Meg with such affable persistence that, through most of the dinner, she was scarcely able to speak to anyone else. She would not have minded (for his remarks were all innocuously pleasant, and he laughed very appreciatively at all her quips) except that he never moved his eyes from a rapt contemplation of her décolletage, which made her feel as if her responses were coming from her bosom rather than her mouth.

Being so busily engaged by her host, Meg had little opportunity to observe Mortimer Lazenby at close range, but her first impression was of an overdressed popinjay. He was seated too far down the table to permit her to converse with him, but even from that distance she could see that his apparel was ridiculous. The fellow may not have shown more than two colors in his waistcoat, but everything else about him was overdone. His shirt-points were so high he could barely turn his head, the fold of his neckcloth so intricate that it seemed a jumbled confusion, his hair was curled and crimped in such profusion that Meg suspected his valet had spent half a day working over it with a hot iron, and, when he stood up to make his bow to her, she'd noted that he wore six fobs on his watch-chain where one would have done quite well.

Nevertheless, Meg did not find Mortimer's foppish appearance to be sufficient grounds to make him ineligible as a suitor for Trixie. She could readily see that Geoffrey, with his country-squire, army-bred Spartan tastes, would find the fellow's attire revolting. But if Trixie didn't mind living the rest of her life with a man who'd spend all his time fussing over his
toilette
, Meg didn't see why her brother should make the matter a major objection. Dandyism was, after all, a rather minor vanity.

Later, however, when the party assembled in the music room for card games and talk, she found the fellow even less to her liking. Trixie, her eyes shining with excitement, brought the young Lazenby to be presented. Meg offered her hand, smiling pleasantly and feeling very willing to be won over. “I've been hearing a great deal about you, Mr. Lazenby,” she said.

Mortimer made his bow. “
Bound
to have heard of me, your ladyship,” he said with perfect seriousness. “Mortimer Lazenby's very well known in these parts. Very well known. Especially since winning the fifteen-miler against Gap-toothed Garrelson last year. Talk of the county, wasn't it, Trix?”

“Oh, yes,” breathed Trixie effusively. “Mr. Garrelson and Mortimer raced a pair of high-perch phaetons from Leyburn to Masham, and Mortimer beat him by a full three minutes. It was the most
thrilling
thing (though of course I wasn't permitted out to watch it), but
everyone
was talking of it.”

“Think it was four,” Mortimer corrected superciliously, fingering his neckcloth idly.

“Four?” Trixie asked, not following.

“Beat him by four, not three. Timekeeper assured me.”

“Oh, yes. Think of it, Lady Meg! He won by
four whole minutes
!”

“How very exciting that must have been,” Meg said, studying Mortimer intently while her feelings swung from amusement to dislike. She could easily excuse the young man's foppishness on the grounds that he was ill-advised by his parents and his valet; excesses in that regard might even be considered foolishly appealing. But an excess of self-consequence was another matter.

“Live in London?” the young man was inquiring. His shirt-points were so high that he found it difficult, standing before her, to lower his head sufficiently to look her in the eye as he spoke, and he addressed all his remarks to an area over her head. What with Lord Habish's tendency to focus on a
lower
area and Mortimer's on an
upper
, Meg began to feel that no one in the room would ever look into her
face
.

“Won't you sit down, Mr. Lazenby? And you, too, Trixie. There's plenty of room for you both on this sofa. Yes, I
do
live in London, sir. On Dover Street. Do you know London at all?”

Trixie perched on her right, beaming happily at Meg in complete confidence that the older woman who'd become her idol was showing approval of her
innamorato
. Mortimer flipped up his tails and sat down on Meg's left, twisting sideways stiffly so that he could look at the ladies without turning his head. “Oh, yes. Know London quite well. Went down for the season last year, you know. Didn't like it above half.”

“No? Why not?”

“Too deucedly crowded, if you ask me. A crush everywhere one went. Parties paltry, too. Ladies set better tables here in Yorkshire than they do in town.”

“If tonight's dinner is typical, you may well be right,” Meg said, trying to be agreeable. She'd noticed many times in the past a tendency among the Dandy Set to drop the subjects of their sentences (probably to convey an impression of un-bookish masculinity), but Motimer was pushing the style—as he did in matters of dress—to its ludicrous extreme. “But there must have been
something
in London which met with your approval,” she said wryly. “How about our places of interest, like Covent Garden?”

He shrugged. “Ain't devoted to plays and opera and such. Was mighty happy to come home, I can tell you. No place in the world like Yorkshire, eh, Trix? Why, even our tailors are better here.” He fingered the lapel of his coat fondly. “Fully expected to be bowled over by the London tailers, y' know? Been told that Stultz and Weston and the other needle-men in town are top-of-the-trees. But, no. Didn't show
me
that they could execute the latest styles. If you ask me, my Mr. Stome—at Ripon, y' know?—is better than the lot of London tailors.”

He looked at them for instant agreement. “You must be right, Mortimer,” Trixie said obligingly, “for there isn't a handsomer coat in the room than the one you're wearing, is there, Lady Meg?”

Meg, who'd found the coat (with its overly padded, puffed-up shoulders and ridiculously wide lapels) almost vulgar in its insistent exaggeration of every stylish tendency, was saved from having to answer by the approach of her host with a plainly dressed, elderly couple in tow. “The Mundeys have been asking to meet you, your ladyship,” Lord Habish said, pulling them forward.

Trixie and Mortimer reluctantly surrendered their places to make room for the newcomers. And when the Mundeys showed signs of settling in for a lengthy conversation, Trixie and Mortimer wandered off, much to Meg's relief.

Mr. and Mrs. Mundey were a simple, unaffected couple whose property, they told her, marched along with the acreage of Knight's Haven, and an interesting quarter-hour passed while they related to Meg their enthusiasm for Sir Geoffrey as a neighbor. “Most sensible fellow in these parts,” the apple-cheeked, grizzled old fellow told her. “He's making improvements in the property that the rest of us are all beginning to imitate.” Meg found herself fascinated with their talk of tenant farmers, leases, crop management and enclosures, although at one point she was momentarily distracted from their conversation by the sound of Lady Carrier's tense voice reaching her from the opposite side of the large room.

Meg couldn't help turning to see what had disturbed Lady Carrier. Although there were a number of tables set up around the room, all occupied with engrossed card players, one table seemed to have attracted a great deal of attention. A small crowd had gathered about the table where Lady Carrier, Lady Habish and Mr. and Mrs. Garrelson were engaged in intense play. Meg could not detect exactly what was being played, but she thought she'd heard Lady Carrier say, “My diamond, then. I'll wager the diamond.”

Meg turned her attention back to the Mundeys, trying to dismiss those words from her mind. Geoffrey had told her that his mother had no sense of finance, but surely even
she
would not be so foolish as to hazard her valuable brooch on a little card game at a private party. Meg must have been mistaken in what she'd heard.

The Mundeys stayed at her side, chatting pleasantly, until they were supplanted by an insistent Mrs. Lazenby, who proved to be as vulgar and self-important as her son. Meg found her loud voice and endless monologue (about how favorably her drawing room, her cook and her china compared to Lady Habish's) tedious and annoying, but she had no way to extricate herself from the lady's presence. After a while, the card game behind her came to an end, and Lady Carrier passed her by, the diamond brooch missing from her turban. Meg was appalled but not surprised. She was beginning to realize that Geoffrey's evaluation of the females who surrounded him was more accurate than hers had been.

She hoped that, by midnight, the party would end. Surely a country assemblage would not keep late hours. But at midnight Lady Habish announced that a buffet supper had been set up in the upstairs sitting room and was now being served. All of the company began to move toward the stairs, no one in the room showing the slightest interest in making an end to the festivities. The host and hostess approached Meg to tell her that the footman would carry her up the stairs to the table, but she firmly declined. “I've had more than enough to eat already,” she insisted. Her host, however, was driven to urge her again and again to change her mind.

Mr. Mundey, overhearing his harangue, came to Meg's rescue. “Let the lady
be
, Habish,” he said. “I'll be happy to keep her company while the rest of you make gluttons of yourselves over Lady Habish's apricot souffles and banana creams.”

The plan suited Meg very well, and the others trooped up the stairs while Mr. Mundey took a place beside Meg and began to recount the circumstances of his friendship with Sir Geoffrey. It took very little urging from Meg to encourage him to expand on the details of his dealings with his admired neighbor. The conversation proved to be very informative. Meg learned a great deal about the problems of estate management and how the war had affected the economies of farming. Mr. Mundey was just launching into a complicated explanation of the meaning of enclosure when they were distracted by the arrival of Mortimer Lazenby from upstairs. The fellow strolled into the room carrying a fully laden platter of tidbits and sweets. “Brought you a bite of supper, your ladyship,” he announced, interrupting the old man in mid-sentence. “I say, Mundey, why don't you go upstairs and get some supper? I'll keep Lady Margaret company in your place.”