The Paper Princess (7 page)

The housekeeper, a thin, old, bent woman, dressed entirely in black except for an enormous starched cap, finally arrived and led them up a shallow flight of uneven stairs to their rooms.

Lord Arthur hoped the ceiling of his bedchamber would prove to be a little higher than those in the rest of the house, because he was tired of stooping, but it proved to be as low-ceilinged, sloping-floored, and dark as the rooms downstairs.

The air was stuffy and stale, and smelled of a mixture of bad drainage, damp, and woodsmoke. He walked over to the mullioned window and wrenched at the catch until he managed to open it. Warm, sweet air floated into the room on the slightest of summer breezes. He leaned his elbows on the sill and looked out.

The garden was a wilderness, but wild roses tangled and tumbled over everything in a riot of color. On a little rise to his left was a “ruin,” one of those picturesque follies built in the last century when it was fashionable for the host to ask his guests, “Would you care to promenade to my ruin?” It had originally housed a hermit, one of the locals whom the late baron had paid with a lifetime's free ale to sit in it and look wise and ancient. The hermit had died of a liver complaint and had never been replaced.

It seemed that the baron did not have menservants, for when Lord Arthur, finding no bell, shouted out into the corridor for washing water, an old chambermaid eventually appeared, bowed down under the weight of two brassbound cans. Lord Arthur relieved her of her burden and asked for towels. She looked frightened and puzzled and then said she would try to find some.

“What on earth does the baron use when he washes?” demanded Lord Arthur, half-amused, half-exasperated.

“The master only washes at Michaelmas and Martinmas,” said the maid slowly.

“But when he washes his face?”

“Well, most times, me lord, he jist uses the bed hangings.”

She came back after about half an hour with two paperthin towels and a bar of kitchen soap. Lord Arthur cursed himself for not having brought his own valet. His Gustav, an energetic Swiss, would at least have bustled about and seen to his master's comfort.

He made a leisurely toilet, changing into a blue morning coat with plaited buttons, buff skin-tight trousers, and hessian boots. His deft fingers molded a snowy cravat into the Oriental, and he brushed his thick black hair until it shone with blue lights.

He heard the sound of horses’ hooves in the distance and went back to the window and looked out.

At first he could see nothing but a moving cloud of white dust on the sunny road. Then he could make out an open carriage with two occupants driven by a coachman with a liveried footman on the backstrap.

He heard Dolph clattering down the stairs, but he stayed where he was, watching the carriage as it turned in through the gates and began to bowl up the drive. The gentleman passenger appeared, as it drew closer, to be a fussily dressed man with a petulant face. The lady held a parasol, so he could not see her face.

The carriage rolled to a stop beneath his window. The footman hopped down from the back, went round, and opened the carriage door and let down a small flight of steps and assisted the lady to alight.

She held up the skirts of her flounced muslin gown, exposing one delicate ankle to Lord Arthur's gaze.

She furled her parasol, then stood and looked about her.

Lord Arthur caught his breath. For this young lady was not the fashionable beauty of the baron's miniature. She was slim, dainty, and very young—definitely under twenty, he thought. She was wearing the very latest thing in “transparent” hats—that is, a wide-brimmed frivolity of stiffened gauze through which her red hair gleamed like living fire.

With a feeling of excitement, Lord Arthur turned from the window and made his way downstairs.

* * * *

“He is a bad landlord, this baron,” said Felicity, stabbing the dry earth with the point of her parasol. “If he is as rich as you claim, why does he not put some money into his estates? He must be almost as clutch-fisted as you are yourself. But at least, Mr. Palfrey, it is only your tenants’ houses you let go to rack and ruin. Lord St. Dawdy treats his tenants with equal unconcern, but also, unlike you, prefers to live in a slum.”

Mr. Palfrey turned pink with outrage.

“Guard your tongue, miss. Oh, if only you had dyed your hair.”

“My dear stepfather, is it not well over time that you told me why you wanted me to dye my hair brown?”

Mr. Palfrey looked sulky. “I sent the baron Maria's miniature.”

Felicity started to laugh. “Choice,” she said. “Very choice, Mr. Palfrey. You have indeed gone and shot yourself in the foot. Let us go in and get this charade over with. I am relieved I am not what the baron expects. For I would not be married to a miser.”

“You will behave, d'ye hear,” hissed Mr. Palfrey, “or I will have you whipped.”

Felicity paled slightly before the venom in his eyes and face. Then with a toss of her head, she moved before him into the darkness of the house.

The old housekeeper held open the door of the drawing room. Felicity went inside. Two gentlemen rose to meet her. The third remained sitting.

Felicity recognized Lord Arthur immediately. Her eyes, a polite blank, her face guarded, she curtseyed and then looked hopefully at Dolph—for surely her fiancé could not be that disgusting old wreck by the table.

“My dear,” said Mr. Palfrey unctuously after Lord Arthur and Dolph had introduced themselves, “here is the baron.”

“What's this?” cried Lord St. Dawdy, glaring awfully at Felicity. “Who's this red-haired chit? Where's my beauty?” And he pulled out the miniature.

“You have been sent the wrong picture,” said Felicity, striving for calm. Why did Lord Arthur have to be here? She could easily have extracted herself from this painful situation quite calmly had he not been looking at her with those amused eyes. “That is a portrait of my elder sister Maria, who married the Bishop of Exeter last year.”

“Oh, it is, is it?” raged the baron. “Well, let me tell you, Palfrey, the wedding's off. You cheated me. You promised me a beauty, not ... not this.”

Long afterward, Lord Arthur was to wonder why he had not remained silent. As it was, he said in glacial tones, “My dear baron, your wits must be wandering. Miss Felicity has a very rare beauty—quite out of the common way.”

Mr. Palfrey brightened. All might yet be saved. “Perhaps, my lord,” he said with a genteel cough, “you might consider marrying my stepdaughter yourself. Her dowry is...”

“You vulgar little man,” said Lord Arthur in tones of contempt. “Why don't you take her to Smithfield Market and put her on the block? How dare you treat any gently-bred miss in this common manner?”

“Now you mention it,” said the baron with a wicked gleam in his eyes, “she's quite a filly. Walk up and down a bit.”

“I am not in the ring at Tattersall's,” said Felicity, gritting her teeth. “No!”

“Suit yerself,” said the baron. “Sit down. Sit down. Here's tea.”

The little company arranged themselves round the table at which the baron was seated. It was not covered by a cloth, and because of the sloping floor it sloped as well so that guests and host were kept busy catching their teacups as they slithered to the edge of the table. The tea was weak and tasted dusty.

The sandwiches looked as if they had been made some time ago, which indeed they had, the baron having entertained the vicar to tea two days before. He had ordered the housekeeper to keep the leftovers so that they might be served up again.

For once, Mr. Palfrey and his stepdaughter shared the same thought, but for different reasons—if only Lord Arthur Bessamy were not present!

Dolph began to chatter nervously about the Prince of Wales's recent appointment as Regent and of the splendid party he had given in Clarence House. The baron's brooding and lustful eyes fastened greedily on Felicity's rounded bosom.

Felicity began to feel faint. The room was close and warm, and the smell from the baron was something quite dreadful. Lord Arthur's exotic and unexpected presence upset her. If only he had kept quiet! Then the baron might have continued to be disappointed in her appearance.

But one thing sang in her head. She would not marry the baron, no matter what happened. She had dreamed of an old and fatherly man, not this horrible, gross creature. She longed for Miss Chubb's reassuring company.

While Dolph rattled on, Mr. Palfrey and the baron exchanged looks and then the baron winked and nodded his head. Mr. Palfrey heaved a sigh of relief.

There was a smash as Dolph's teacup hit the floor. The rest were managing the peculiar exercise of leaving their cups for a moment, then catching them just as they slid to the edge of the table.

“You'll pay me for that,” said the baron. “Why don't you take Miss Felicity outside for a walk, Dolph?”

Dolph jumped to his feet. Glad to escape, Felicity rose and accepted his escort. Lord Arthur followed them out.

They walked in silence through the sunny, tangled grounds, Felicity in the middle, Dolph on her left hand, Lord Arthur on her right. It was so bright, warm, and rose-scented that Felicity wondered bleakly why some of the sunshine could not light up the darkness in her soul.

“The weather is very fine, is it not?” ventured Dolph. Felicity lowered her parasol and withered him into silence with a look of contempt. Here she was, about to be forced into marriage with an old lecher, and this London fool was babbling on about the weather.

“Tell me,” said Lord Arthur, “have you ever met a tailor's boy called Freddy Channing?”

“No, my lord,” said Felicity loftily, as if such a person were definitely beneath her notice.

“Strange,” he murmured, “in such a sparsely populated region, I felt sure you would know everyone hereabouts.”

“I do not go about much,” said Felicity repressively.

“Perhaps after your marriage...”

“You are in error. I shall not marry, and certainly not Lord St. Dawdy.”

“But your stepfather seems very determined.”

“So am I,” said Felicity. “What brings you here, Lord Arthur?”

“I came with my friend, Mr. Godolphin. He is Lord St. Dawdy's nephew.”

“And do you visit your uncle often, Mr. Godolphin?” asked Felicity.

“From time to time,” said Dolph, struggling with his stock, which appeared to have become very tight.

He thought this ferocious little girl was proving to be an uncomfortable companion.

“You do not seem to be enjoying our company,” said Lord Arthur, a mocking note in his voice.

“No, I am enjoying none of this,” said Felicity. “If you had not found it necessary to praise my appearance, Lord Arthur, then the baron might have cried off.”

“I am sorry, but then, I do find you beautiful, Miss Channing,” said Lord Arthur, a caressing note in his voice.

Felicity's face flamed, and she rounded on him. “But you do not like me well enough to marry me,” she said evenly. “Only to praise me in order to bait the baron.”

“I say,” bleated Dolph helplessly.

Lord Arthur looked down at Felicity with something approaching dislike. He had been toying with the idea of doing something in the way of knight-errantry. He had been considering proposing to Felicity himself, for she fascinated and intrigued him, and he was sorry for her.

But because of his wealth and his title, he was used to people toadying to him quite dreadfully. No one had dared to criticize him for years, except perhaps Dolph, but Dolph was a man. Men who were friends were allowed the occasional remark—but females, never!

“I should not for a moment consider marrying such a broad-spoken termagant as yourself,” he said, and then wondered why he immediately felt like a coxcomb. “After all,” he went on quickly, “I have no intention of marrying anyone. Dolph here will tell you I am a confirmed bachelor.”

“Then, since you have damned me as broad-spoken,” said Felicity, smarting with hurt, “I shall go further and tell you that I do not like you one little bit, Lord Arthur. You are making a bad day horrible by your sneering and indifferent presence. I wish ... I wish you would go away.”

He looked down into her furious eyes and saw all the pain and fear them. His heart gave a lurch. “Miss Felicity,” he began, but another aged and bent maidservant of the baron's materialized at his elbow to say that Mr. Palfrey was ready to leave and would Miss join him immediately.

Felicity ran off in the direction of the house.

“Phew!” said Dolph. “I pity my uncle if he marries that shrew.”

“I behaved badly ... very badly,” said Lord Arthur curtly. “We are going to ride over to Tregarthan Castle tomorrow so that I may make my apologies.”

“But, I say...” said Dolph.

“There's going to be a storm,” said Lord Arthur, beginning to walk back toward the house. “Clouds are piling up in the west.”

Dolph looked over to the west and saw a mountain of great, fat purplish clouds climbing up the sky.

Then he hurried to keep up with his friend's long strides. Lord Arthur was behaving in a most odd way.

Dolph began to wish he had not brought him.

Felicity and her stepfather each kept an icy silence on the road home. A great crashing peal of thunder rolled about the turrets of the castle as they entered the polished gloom of the hall.

Felicity was about to stalk off up the stairs, but Mr. Palfrey seized her arm in a vicious grip and started to call for his servants.

The butler, the footmen, the maids, and the housekeeper came hurrying into the hall.

Mr. Palfrey addressed them, still keeping tight hold of Felicity. “My stepdaughter has disgraced me,” he cried. “She is to be whipped!”

Felicity managed to pull free, and stood white-faced, looking at the servants.

Not one of them moved to obey the command. They stood stolidly, in a circle, looking at their master.

“Whip her!” screamed Mr. Palfrey, beside himself with rage.

Anderson, the butler, cleared his throat. “No, sir,” he said. “That we cannot do.”

Another great peal of thunder rocked the castle.

Mr. Palfrey stood panting with rage. He could not fire them all. And he longed for their admiration and respect.