“Have you indeed? What on earth for?” was the reply. “Waste of time and money. She’s pretty enough to get a husband without the bother. Why, I thought she was meant for her cousin in Sussex. You used to speak of it, did you not?”
“Oh, but that was before ... before...” She could not bring herself to utter the bald truth.
“Before Bertie got his uncle’s money you mean. Aye, that will make some difference I daresay. You will be looking a little higher for a match. My son is coming home next week.”
A cunning smile alit on Lady Proctor’s face at the significance of this statement, coming so close on the heels of talk about Jane. After one glance at that expression, Lady Dewar rapidly spoke on. “Chubbie is bringing some young folks with him. There might be a
parti
in the lot for Jane.”
“Chubbie?” Lady Proctor asked.
“Dewar. I still call him Chubbie once in a while. I’m getting old and dotty, you see. Funny how you revert to the old days when you’re approaching senility. Dewar was a chubby baby. A regular little roly-poly fellow. I don’t see how he grew into such a string bean. I really don’t know why he’s coming to the Abbey. I thought he’d stay in town for the fall little season, and maybe come home for a few days at Christmas, but he comes this week-end with a party of young folks. It will be lively to have them around. He might be bringing home a lady for my approval,” she added in a seemingly careless way, dashing the hopes in her hostess’s bosom.
“Is he thinking of marriage?” Elsa asked.
“I’ll be the last to know. His aunt tells me he’s been running around town with some beauty. Lady Alicia Grover I believe it is. She’s mentioned it twice over the past few months, so there may be something in it. We shall see.”
This disheartening talk was interrupted by the arrival of the tea tray. “My word, you
do
do things up nicely, Elsa. Say that for you,” the countess exclaimed, eying the tray with greedy interest. “Hot scones and cream for the tea. That’s a good-looking preserve too. Strawberry, is it?” She spooned a gob onto her place as she spoke, and stuck the serving spoon into her mouth to confirm her guess. At least she did not return it to the communal jam pot.
She single-handedly consumed two-thirds of the scones and drank three cups of tea before bending over, with a mild oath, to ease her aching feet into her boots for departure. “Write up that Folkstone pudding receipt for me, Holly, and have a servant bring it to me. Nice visit, Elsa. I’ll come back soon,” she said as she went toward the door. As an afterthought she added, “And I’ll have Dewar bring his company to call if there’s a likely-looking match in the young men for Janie. Where is she?”
“She is having her piano lesson in the village with Miss Carroll,” the mother answered. “I’ll tell her you were asking for her.”
“Hah, much she’ll care, the minx. Tell her to curl her hair and I’ll find her a beau to save you dragging her off to London. Good day to you. Good day, Holly,” she shouted as she went out the door, lumbering at an awkward gait, as the damp autumn weather invaded her corns.
“There, you see, it is just as I said,” Lady Proctor told her niece, as soon as they were alone. “She means to foster a match between Dewar and Jane.” Holly looked at her blankly, wondering how desire could so warp one’s reading of reality. “She mentioned we would be looking higher than formerly. And telling us Dewar’s baby name—that is the sort of family familiarity she has never mentioned before.”
“She said one of Dewar’s
guests
might be suitable.”
“Guests? It is Dewar himself she has in mind. Not a doubt of it. Why else would she ask to be remembered to Jane, and caution her to get her hair done? Dewar fancies elegant women, you must know. I begin to understand her scheme now. She has not spoken of it to Dewar. She means to send him down to call, and let him see for himself how pretty Jane is become. That is clever of her, to be sure. Very clever. I shall do the same with Jane, and not say a word about it, except to tell her to get her hair done, of course. And she had better have a new gown. Is that skirt hemmed yet, my dear?”
“I was just about to finish it,” Holly said, reaching down for the garment.
"It is all those orphan shirts that holds us up so. How we shall ever find time to get a new gown made up as well I don’t know. You had better take Jane into the village this afternoon, and speak to the modiste. Oh, and you will have to stop at the drapers and select some material. Much too cold for muslin. Get her a good quality of silk—some of that new georgette they have got in. The rose or blue, whichever Jane wants. In fact, get both. With Dewar in residence, there are bound to be plenty of balls and parties. We shall have one ourselves. A rout do you think, Holly, or a real ball? Make up a list of guests, will you? You know where the old list is. My, so busy as I shall be. I think I’ll have a lie-down to prepare myself for it all.”
She dragged herself from her chair, trailing the lace wisp after her. She was fatigued with the weight of all these pending exertions. So fortunate she had dear Holly to help her a little.
Lord Dewar sat at an ornate japanned desk in his bedchamber on Grosvenor Square with a cup of black coffee at his elbow, and the
Morning Chronicle
open before him. It was his custom to begin at page one of this journal and quickly read it through each morning before he dressed. Today, he stopped at page seven, his eyes scanning the social columns.
One would be forgiven for thinking him ill-pleased with the world. There was an expression of weary disdain on his chiselled countenance. His black brows, as finely etched and groomed as any lady’s, rose a fraction as his grey orbs settled on an item in the column. Without looking up, he reached out his hand for a pencil, and drew a circle around the item, then lounged back in his padded chair and sighed luxuriously. A smile of satisfaction settled on his lean cheeks. Then he shoved the paper aside and took up his coffee.
Really a dead bore, the daily papers. When you’d read one you’d read them all. Always a tirade against the government, and usually another against the Prince Regent in this Whig paper. Prices were high and rising daily, the roads were a national disgrace, and one or another of the Royal Family was ill. On the editorial pages there would be an article against the low academic standards pertaining at the universities, the low moral values of the aristocracy, and the high unemployment.
Really, the world was a demmed bore. He would be happy to get away to the Abbey for a few months and recuperate his spirits. Even if that notice had not appeared in the paper he would have gone. In fact, especially if it had not appeared, he would have gone.
He picked the
Chronicle
up once more and reread the item. Lady Congrave was pleased to announce the betrothal of her niece, Lady Alicia Grover, to the Hon. Hanley Healey Smith-Daiches.... Folks would take the shatter-brained idea he was running to hide his grief, when the visit (to say nothing of the betrothal) had been arranged a week before, to escape the lady’s clutches. That was the trouble with women. Flirt with them for a few weeks, and they took the cork-brained idea you wanted to spend the rest of your life with them. Marriage was for fools and clergymen. What man would willingly shackle himself to one woman for the rest of his days, when every Season brought forth a new batch of beauties?
One month had proved the invariable length of time it took him to become tired of a young lady. One week to learn her tricks, two to admire them, one to become disenchanted. Strange when one came to consider it for, with male friends, the longer you knew them the better you liked them. But with women it was the reverse. There was nothing so fascinating as a new flirt. It was not likely he would find any to his liking at Harknell, in the very heart of Kent, where his Abbey was situated. Should he invite a few along? No, this would be an all-male party, he decided. To be inviting females to one’s ancestral home had a serious air he sought to avoid in his affairs.
He had invited Luke Altmore for rational conversation; George Foxworth for riding and hunting; old Sir Laurence Digby to amuse his mama; and Rex Homberly, a cousin, had invited himself. He would amuse no one, but never mind. He was a harmless fool. Kings of old were accustomed to have midgets and clowns about them, and Rex filled the dual capacity, being only slightly above five feet in height and an acknowledged idiot. It did not occur to Dewar that he had mentally assigned himself a monarch’s crown in this analogy, nor would it have seemed out of place to him if he had thought of it. He was considered a sort of monarch of society.
He was disturbed by a scratching sound at the door, as of a cat sharpening its claws. Curious, Dewar arose and went to open his door. There was no cat there, but a stumpy, slightly overweight gentleman with a pink face and bright blue eyes.
“Morning, Dewar. Mind if I come in?” he asked, and pushed his way past, into the elegant chamber.
“Why were you scratching at my door? Why did you not knock or, better, await below and have word sent up you were here?” his cousin demanded, never in a terribly good mood before he had finished the ritual of paper and coffee.
“Did,” Homberly answered with a sniffling sound. “Been waiting half an hour. In a bit of a hurry, Dewar, if you want the truth.”
“By all means, let us have no evasions,” Dewar answered, in a bored voice.
Rex sat down at the chair just vacated by his host and began to glance at the paper. As he turned a page, he heedlessly reached out for the cup of coffee and raised it to his lips, while Dewar looked on, first in vexation, finally giving way to resignation, as one always did in the end with Homberly.
After another moment, Dewar went to the door and called his valet. While he made a careful toilette, taking quite ten minutes to tie his cravat to his liking, and another two or three to select from amongst his blue jackets, Homberly read on silently, his lips forming each syllable, stopping only to sip from time to time. The dressing and drinking were concluded simultaneously.
“Next time you mean to honour me by coming for breakfast you must let me know, Rex, and I shall provide you gammon and eggs, or a nice beefsteak if you prefer,” his cousin said.
“That’d be dandy, Dewar. Just dandy. The coffee was good, but I prefer more sugar, and a lot of cream—at least half a cup. Foxey is such a jokesmith, he says I take a little coffee in my cream.”
“A dangerous man with his tongue, Foxey.”
“So he is. Think I could handle a second cup all the same,” Rex said magnanimously, and reached for the pot.
“Help yourself. And, when you are finished, we shall discuss what brought you here. There was talk of a great hurry.”
“So there was, by Jove. Slipped my mind. Got to reading about that woman that cleaved her man’s head open with an axe. They say there was brains spilt on the floor. Ain’t that an awful thing for a woman to do. You ever seen brains, Dew?”
“As a matter of fact I have, but I cannot ever recall seeing any evidence of them when I am with you, Rex,” he answered in a kindly tone. “About that hurry...”
“Have to let Roper know what to pack for the visit. Thing is, only wanted to ask you if there’s anything in particular I’ll be needing. Outside of horses and clothes, I mean. Got any rigs running is what I’m asking you.”
“You want to know the nature of the diversions planned to amuse you?” Dewar asked.
“That’s it. Know you often make your guests take part in a play or a pageant or whatnot. Got a dandy horse’s outfit at home. Me and Foxey wore it to a masquerade party at Wilmot’s last night. Had a jolly time. Mind if we go as a horse again, I mean to be the front end, for it’s not only hot as Jehoshaphat at the rear—it puts a crick in your back, bending over so long.”
“I try to avoid the obvious, so shan’t say a word about the suitability of your outfit. I see no need for the costume at the Abbey, Rex. Thoughtful of you to ask.”
“Not at all. Very happy to help you out any way I can. Thought your mama might enjoy it. Just what is on then? Mean to say, when Dewar takes a party off to St. Alton’s Abbey for a month at the beginning of the little season, folks wonder what you’re up to. Can’t be just Alicia’s getting buckled to old Smith-Daiches, for you had the visit planned before that. Was yourself pushed Daiches at her head, as far as that goes. You ain’t taking any ladies, so it don’t look like one of your famous dramatical presentations. Wish you’d asked me to take a part in the last one, with all the devils and stuff in it.”
“I have no drama planned this trip. Some hunting, riding, a few routs, a ball perhaps....”
“Sure you ain’t going to make us write?” Homberly asked, with a suspicious eye. “I remember the time you locked all your guests up and made us each write a one-act play. Ain’t going to write no silly play, Dewar.”
“You have already done that. One silly play from you is more than enough. And if you will recall, Cousin, I did not invite you on that literary sojourn held at the Abbey. A bunch of us—Leigh Hunt it was, Byron, Tom Moore, and a couple of blue ladies—wanted to compare how different writers would tackle the idea of a modern morality play. It was Byron’s idea. It was not a success, however. Byron claimed none of us knew enough about the subject to do it justice.”
“Don’t intend to sit around painting pictures either. Didn’t invite myself the week-end you had us to your hunting box and made us all paint each other as some famous painting. You invited me. Didn’t know you didn’t plan to hunt. Mean to say, a man invites you to his hunting box... And you turned that pretty little Frances Webster into an ugly old Mona Lisa. Made a very poor Julius Caesar yourself too, I can tell you.”
“I have given up taking an active part in the arts, Rex. Mother Nature has played a cruel prank on me. It is ironic that I, who perhaps appreciate music, painting, and poetry more than any other man in England, should be endowed with no talent to execute any of them. I am a mere critic. I don’t mean to subject my guests or myself to any of that form of torture you speak of. If you have misgivings, however, I shall be very happy to make your excuses to Mama ...,” he said politely.