A Season for the Heart (18 page)

lure. . . .

Help came unexpectedly, heralded by a light tapping upon Pommy’s door. She opened it to discover Gareth standing in the hall, an expression of extreme anxiety upon his face.

“Do you know why Uncle Derek is closeted this age with my mother?” he asked in a conspiratorial whisper.

Pommy feared she knew only too well, but she was not one to gossip, so she returned a question. “Haven’t you any idea?”

“I am afraid they are cooking up a match for me,” the beautiful youth said gloomily. “They are both on at me forever to get myself into harness! Mother thinks it would anchor me here in town. My uncle says it would make a man of me. I had hoped you might have an inkling as to the subject of their present discussion.”

Pommy was struck with a formidable idea. “Do you know if they have some specific young lady in mind for you?” she asked.

“Not that I have heard,” replied Gareth despondently. “I have not formed a partiality for any of the endless stream of suitable females they have been introducing me to this past Season.”

“Have you no preference at all?” asked Pommy crossly. “Surely there must be some charming girl who has caught your fancy?”

A sudden light entered Gareth’s eyes, making his whole face radiant. “There is one,” he began. Then his face fell. “They would never let me marry her,” he concluded sadly.

“Why not?” prodded Pommy.

“Because her wretched father has been trying to foist the poor girl onto Uncle Derek,” explained the youth, disconsolately.

“You don’t—you
can’t
mean Isabelle?” breathed Miss Rand, her eyes shining.

“Why can’t I?” retorted Gareth crossly. “She’s by far the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, and so—so conversable!” He went on, to Pommy’s amazement, “I can talk to Isabelle as I never could to one of those flibbety-gibbety débutantes! She listens to me, and doesn’t interrupt, and I find I can express my ideas more clearly to her than to anyone—even Mother.”

“Have you spoken to Isabelle?”

“About marrying me?” Gareth laughed without humor. “How can I? Mama and Uncle Derek are sure to think she is in the blackmailing scheme with her father. She would be the last person either of them would consider suitable for me.” The beautiful youth sighed despondently. “My life is ruined.”

That was all Pommy needed. Instantly her heart was melted, her imagination roused, and her forces recruited.

“Dear Gareth, let us find out whether Isabelle feels for you the same tender emotions you have just expressed for her!” She conveniently ignored the fact that Gareth’s “tender emotions” had been limited to satisfaction at Isabelle’s ability to listen to him without interrupting, and a nod of admiration toward her beauty. Her partisanship was easier because she recalled Isabelle’s deep and evident
empressement
over Gareth’s appearance, and her too-casual inquiries as to whether he was Pommy’s brother, cousin or fiancé. She felt a momentary qualm at betraying her employer by encouraging her son to make a questionable alliance, for it was plain Gareth was expected to marry a girl of his own order. To a high stickler such as Lady Masterson, even the wealth of a Croesus would not be sufficient to remove the taint of Trade from the vintner’s daughter, while Lord Austell could scarcely be expected to accept with equanimity the possibility of being connected by his nephew’s marriage with the man who was presently trying to blackmail him.

Still, what else was she to do? It was evident to the meanest intelligence that Gareth could not easily be persuaded to marry where his interest was not involved: witness his mother’s unsuccessful attempts to get him shackled to any girl of the
Ton
. But he had displayed a remarkable interest in Miss Boggs, and she in him. It was also evident that Miss Boggs must be married if Lord Austell was to be saved from social disaster.

Pommy frowned with the complexity of the problem. Gareth and Isabelle between them had hardly enough sense to come in out of a rainstorm, but they had taken an instant liking to one another and would be happy and comfortable together. If Lady Masterson was too indignant to forgive them at once, they could retire to Gareth’s estate and be happy, while Lord Austell consoled Lady Masterson for her loss of an escort by marrying her and giving her his right arm and the rest of his splendid body to lean upon.

Somehow the very thought of that eventuality so depressed Pommy that she had little heart for the machinations she would have to perform to bring about the desired end. She took herself sharply to task. What did it matter that her own feelings were cruelly lacerated, as long as Lord Austell was happy and safe from scandal? Swallowing a painful lump in her throat, Pommy accepted the fact that her perfidy toward her kind employer would result in her instant dismissal and ejection from this house into the hostile streets of London. And of course she would never see Lord Austell again— But he would be happy with his Aurora. . . .

“Why,” asked Gareth in bewilderment, “are you crying, Pommy? Do you have the headache?” It occurred to him that his mother frequently seemed to develop a headache when he tried to talk her into letting him visit his estate. Perhaps women’s brains were too delicate to sustain a serious conversation with a man? And yet Miss Boggs had seemed most happy to converse with him. Her lovely brow had remained quite unfurrowed and she had even appeared anxious to continue their tête-à-tête! It seemed to Gareth that his Isabelle—for so, with Pommy’s encouragement, he now dared to regard her—was unusually intelligent for a woman. Beautiful, kind, intelligent! A Nonpareil! He set his well-shaped mouth in a stubborn line. Headache or no headache, Pommy must carry through with the task she herself had just suggested, that of finding out whether the beautiful Miss Boggs felt for him what he now realized he felt for her: to wit, Love.

To this end, he walked over to Pommy, and holding her firmly by the shoulder with one hand, he dried her tears with his own handkerchief. “Now, now, my dear Pommy, you must not cry any longer! I am sure Mama has often said it is the ruination of one’s complexion—if one is a lady, that is! Of course, men do not cry, but I should not think it would matter if they did, since their complexions are neither as delicate nor as important as those of ladies.” He recollected his original purpose and continued eagerly, “Will you tell me whether the woman I love has any feeling for me at all?”

Unaware that this equivocal scene might be grossly misunderstood by the two persons approaching down the hallway, Pommy looked up into Gareth’s beautiful, kindly, beef-witted countenance and a smile broke through her tears.

“Oh, Gareth, you are a darling! Of course I shall do exactly as you wish!”

In his delight at this wholehearted cooperation, Gareth gave his accomplice a hug, and bestowed upon her wet face a brotherly salute.

To Pommy’s horror, Lady Masterson’s voice rang out from the doorway at this instant.

“Why are you kissing Pommy, Gareth? Oh, are you in love at last?”

The culprits whirled to face her and found themselves also confronting a black-browed Derek. Lady Masterson had also turned to him.

“It is the answer to your problem, Derek! If we spread it about that Gareth is to marry Pommy, it will serve to discourage Mr. Corcran’s unwelcome attentions.” She smiled upon her son and his companion. “I shall arrange a small dance in Pommy’s honor and invite Sally Jersey. The rumor will be all over London within twenty-four hours.”

“But I do not—we do not—that is—” stammered the girl.

Lord Austell seemed to have himself well in hand again. “Quite a Romantic story, is it not, Pommy? Are you now playing Cinderella, or the Sleeping Beauty?”

“Neither,” began Pommy desperately. “We do not—”

But with shocking perversity Gareth broke into her angry denial. “We’d be most grateful, Mama! Pommy shall help you with the guest list, shall you not—er—my dear?” and he made such an elaborate grimace toward the girl that the Earl’s attention was arrested, and he stared hard at the white-faced Pommy.

Fourteen

When Gareth, reminded gently by his mama that he was missing his customary morning exercise, had gone off to ride in the Park, and Pommy, protesting that there was still much she wished to say, had been dispatched to ask Gordon to show her where the invitation cards were kept, Lady Masterson turned to confront her brother-in-law’s ironic glance.

“Oh, yes, I know what you are thinking, Derek,” she admitted, with a mischievous smile.

“I rather doubt that,” replied the Earl, grimly.

“But I do! You are silently rating me for having pushed those two babies into a situation for which they have no liking, but I promise you I know what I am doing.”

The Earl raised his eyebrows quizzically, but there was surprise in his expression. “So you realized there was nothing to matter in the rather adolescent exchange we witnessed?” he asked.

“More than that, I think I know where Gareth’s real interest lies—but there are problems, Derek, and I cannot permit you to bustle into the affair like a male tornado, setting everyone heels over heads!”

Derek was forced to chuckle. “Now I wonder what schemes you are hatching in that devious brain of yours, my dear sister-in-law? Shall I be forced to come to your rescue?”

Aurora’s laughter chimed musically. “You will have to wait, like Gareth and Pommy, for a full revelation at the appropriate time,” she teased.

“You terrify me, Aurora,” said Lord Austell not entirely facetiously. “And may I say that you delight me, as well? I have not seen you sparkle in this way for too long a time.”

Lady Masterson stretched up her hand and patted the brown cheek gently. “Your diagnosis was correct, Dr. Austell,” she jibed with soft eyes that belied her mocking voice. “Rx: one warm, sensitive, engaging girl, prone to Romantic fancies and too impulsively bent on carrying out harebrained schemes! Guaranteed to stir up a fresh interest in living in the most lachrymose of fashionable females!”

“If the prescription has succeeded, I am most grateful to the minx,” Lord Austell said, and bent to kiss the slender white hand which had patted his cheek. It was thus that Pommy beheld them as she appeared outside the open doors of the drawing room, a large box of blank cards in her hands. She halted abruptly, smothered a startled “O!” and was turning hastily away when Lady Masterson caught sight of her.

“Do come in, Pommy. I am ready to jot down our guest list now, and you shall write out the invitations. I understand you were educated by your grandfather, who was a notable scholar, so I sure you write a very pretty hand.” She smiled and seated herself at a
buhl escritoire
. “I shall draft a model for you.”

Very conscious of Lord Austell’s presence in the room, Pommy bent over Her Ladyship’s shoulder as the latter’s pen scratched swiftly across a card. The wording appeared to be in regular form until the last line, which said, “To meet Miss Melpomene Rand.”

“But I am only your companion, Milady—!” the girl gasped. “You do me too much honor!”

“You are my medicine against melancholy,” corrected Lady Masterson with a chuckle. “You have stirred me quite out of the doldrums. You must allow me to celebrate my new interest in living, my dear.”

“I can see,” commented the Earl wryly, “that I have been forgotten completely by my hostess. I shall therefore beg you to excuse me.” He bowed to both ladies with his usual urbane charm and took his leave.

Pommy’s eyes followed the tall, distinguished figure out of the room. She made herself fight against a wave of desolation. She had seen enough to convince her that her suspicions were correct. For all his disclaimer that Lady Masterson’s shifting moods put him off, Lord Austell had been kissing her hand with such tenderness that it was impossible to mistake his feelings.

“She deserves him, too!” Pommy told herself loyally, remembering the unquestioning kindness with which her employer had received a perfectly strange young woman into her home, the distinguishing notice she had accorded to her, the lovely gowns purchased, and the insistence that Pommy accompany her on the pleasant little excursions to the dress shop and later to houses of her friends.

Still, Pommy did not succumb to maudlin self-sacrifice. She was convinced that her own plan to get Gareth married to Isabelle was a sound one, since they were so equally matched in beauty, artlessness, and amiable stupidity, and since they were mutually heart-smitten. Singly, each would probably drive a future husband or wife to deadly boredom or frenzy, but as a couple they could well live a pleasant and rewarding life. Or so Pommy reasoned, and she was more than willing to assist the star-crossed lovers in any way possible. Since she was now inscribing the invitations to the Ball, she made sure that one was addressed to Isabelle—together with an impressive warning not to tell her father anything about it. She was not too sure that Isabelle would be able to follow such sensible advice, but left the matter in the hands of Fortuna, with a nod in the direction of the goddess Tyche as well. Then, feeling that she had done all in her power to placate both the Roman and the Greek Fates, she took an opportunity before dinner to tell Gareth what she had done, and warn him to be alert to attend Miss Boggs from the instant of her arrival.

“If you are seen to express partiality for
her
, it will not only prevent your being forced to offer for
me
, but it will also lessen the chances of Mr. Boggs’s scheme against Lord Austell succeeding—do you see that?”