“Yes, we’re probably as bad as them, or worse,” Delford continued the lesson. “But it all comes out in talking. Just keep up the chatter and you won’t go far wrong. Daresay if you’d told Belle,” he said, turning to Oliver, “that you didn’t like Henderson dangling after her, she’d have slipped him the clue, and saved the little tiff. Old Dempster will spread it around town. Still, it don’t matter much. Her sort is always rattling off about something or other.”
“I did tell her,” Oliver admitted, having become so engrossed in the talk that he forgot to be discreet.
“Suppose you told her you didn’t like the
looks
of it,” Ryan suggested. “Same as me and the caper merchant.”
He could not recall his precise words, but certainly that had been the gist of it—what he tried to make her think. Oliver looked at these two men. He had never thought either of them particularly clever, but how
wise
they were, compared to himself. They had seen the problem, recognized it, taken action to prevent a breakup in their marriages, while he had stood idly by and watched Belle turn from a happy lover to a mute stranger, without lifting a finger to change it. Had done the same thing himself, in fact. Never told her what was bothering him—had let her think his barbs were caused by her occasional and very slight solecisms, instead of her indifference. Had raised an eyebrow at her suit or bonnet, when it was the fact of her going riding out with some other party that was really annoying him.
It occurred to Ryan after some moments of silence that he was not going to receive any reply to his question. “Think I’ve had about enough of this game,” he said, and laid down his cue.
“Can’t stop now. The game ain’t over,” Delford charged.
It was not officially over, but it was pretty effectively arrested by the third member’s standing and staring out of the window with a ruminating frown on his face, while the other two waited for him to take his turn.
“Think we’ll call it a game,” Ryan said, speaking loudly to Oliver.
“Yes,” he answered unthinkingly, and watched as the other two left.
“Well, do you think it did any good?” Ryan asked of Delford after they were down the hall.
“It’s set him to thinking anyway,” Ed replied, and they both went off to report to their wives their results.
Chapter Thirteen
Lady Hathaway had foreseen from the earliest stages that her party would not be one of her greater successes; she was rapidly coming to wish she had never gone forward with it at all after Raffles’ taking ill. It should have been an omen to her. But no, she had forged on, assembling a host of mismatched persons with so little in common that one half the group never spoke to the other, and if Marion Ponsonby had said so much as good day to anyone, it was all she had said. No, that wasn’t true. She had said thank you when Oliver had got her a glass of wine the other evening. Two phrases in as many days. She would be setting herself up as a conversationalist, no doubt.
Then there was La Travalli, who would never be still. She continued roaming the house at will, and someone had even reported seeing her in the village. How had she got there? Whose horses and carriage had she helped herself to? And what had she picked up without expense in the shops, to have the bills turn up next week at Ashbourne? The creature had also taken to rolling her eyes at Mr. Higgins, the M.P. who was rapidly rising in the world, and said to be on the verge of an engagement to a highly placed and wealthy lady of fashion. Much good it would do him, and herself, if he fell into a misalliance with an Italian singer while here, at her party.
These were only tentative ills, of course. There had already been enough off-color happenings to keep the ton buzzing for a week. One of her guests, and her late husband’s cousin too, actually beaten up and required to sneak out the side door home to avoid being murdered. The Avondales squabbling and shouting at each other, and Oliver still fixing for a fight if anyone looked at him the wrong way. Belle laid out on her bed refusing food and probably preparing to go into another decline. Then the ball, which was
not
to be a ball after all but only a rout! In her distracted state she was not capable of all the formalities of a ball.
She had had the unwisdom to invite a dozen local couples to dinner before the rout, thus intimating it was to be a ball, for she did not invite guests to a dinner party before a rout. Pierre’s migraine had progressed to the flu, and he was in his room sneezing his head off. The whole house would take it from him.
Never mind that—who was to prepare dinner for her regular guests plus the two dozen couples invited locally? The female servants were no more able to execute the French dishes for which he had assembled ingredients than they were able to fly. They shook their silly heads to see brandy in the kitchen, and what had he wanted with three quarts of clotted cream? The famous Hathaway ragout would be dumped on her guests’ plates as English stew, and if the roast mutton wasn’t dry and the potatoes wet it was the best she could hope for. At least it was not a dull affair. One way or the other, it would be talked of.
But her present chore was to see to her guest, Avondale’s wife, and coerce her into attending the ball. She would not want to do it—who should blame her—but it was necessary that she go. How else was Ollie to get her back? To force a guest to do something went sadly against the pluck with the hostess, but it was all of a piece with the rest of this wretched party. She went upstairs and tapped at Belle’s door to see whether she was even physically capable of coming downstairs. She found her sitting by the window, smiling wistfully, and staring out into the front yard, where the Delfords and Sloanes were playing croquet and ruining the lawn.
“Feeling better?” Kay asked hopefully, greatly relieved to see her up, and not bawling either.
“Feeling mortified to the bone,” Belle answered. “What a bother I’ve been to you, Kay. I think the best thing is for me to go home, right away. Is it possible for me to borrow your carriage?”
“Certainly you may, but not today, I fear. What should happen but the front wheel has come off? I have the wheeler working on it this very day, and it should be fixed by tomorrow, but I’m afraid for today you must stay with me.” And may the good Lord forgive me for lying, she added silently to herself.
“Oh—then I must be here for the ball. I had hoped—but of course I need not attend it. I can stay in my room."
“It is not really a ball. Only a little rout party. I hope you will come down.”
Belle sat nibbling her lower lip, and the hostess thought that with a little judicious nudging she might be talked around. She arose and went to where Belle’s lovely white crepe hung on the back of the door. “You will not want to leave without showing this lovely thing to the guests. What a fine piece of work! You have a French modiste, have you?” It was not really quite so fine a gown as this high praise implied, but every low trick was being used to achieve the desired end.
“No, a local woman does my gowns. About the party—it is just a little rout, you say?”
“Yes, just a few neighbors dropping in. Why don’t you come down to dinner?—and if you find the party too much for you, you can always slip upstairs early. I wouldn’t satisfy Lizzie Dempster to let her run back to the city and say you didn’t dare to come down.”
“What story might she not be running back to London with if I
do
attend and Oliver takes into his head to make another scene?”
“Have no fear on that score, my dear. I have taken that fellow to account, and he is as humble as may be.” More lies! But she would do it. She would nag his ears off.
“Well, I suppose it will be very dull sitting up here all alone,” Belle said, thinking aloud. If Oliver would behave, she would not dislike to attend the party. She had done very little in a social way all winter, and had been looking forward to this dance.
Kay did not immediately follow up this hopeful lead, for she suddenly noticed Belle was staring at her hands, rubbing them together. Glancing to see more closely what she did, she saw that on her left hand she wore her wedding ring. She had not had it on when she came, nor at any other time since coming, but she had it on now. She had been smiling at the window, with her wedding ring on. It was the most hopeful sign yet, and she was highly tempted to run down the stairs that minute and tell Oliver. But first it must be clearly established that Belle was to attend dinner and the dance.
“It will be dull, then too if you mean to go to London as you mentioned, you might as well get used to Oliver’s being around.”
“Oh yes, I definitely plan to go to London.” Easthill had been bad enough with Arnold to take her around here and there. He had failed her sadly, and she would not go home and sink into a housekeeper for Papa and a married spinster.
“Good! Dinner at seven-thirty. I’ve put it back half an hour. See you there.” She dashed from the room before Belle could change her mind. She was humming as she hastened down the hallway to her own room to change, still humming when she entered and saw the Signora Travalli stretched out on her bed asleep.
“Silly old cow,” she muttered, shaking her awake and pushing her out the door. “Go on and put some clothes on. Time to eat. You will like that. Eat—
mangiare
—pasta!”
A volley of strange syllables were returned to her, and the signora went off to pester someone else.
* * * *
There was wine served in the green saloon before dinner. Oliver had been one of the first there, and had been drawn into conversation with some local squires and gentlemen by his cousin, as the rest of the city people clustered by themselves, ignoring the provincials. The bugbear of the hostess, of course. As hard to mix as oil and water. The locals were on their high ropes if you didn’t ask them to these dos, and on their high ropes again if you asked them and they were made to feel like outsiders. Next time she’d not ask them.
Belle was one of the last to enter. She hadn’t got her foot inside the door till Lady Dempster was at her side. How odd they looked together—like an angel and a witch. Why must Lizzie always rig herself out like a carrion crow? She didn’t have a stitch in her closet that wasn’t black. No amount of looking could determine whether Belle still wore the gold band. There was something on her finger, but she had a little pearl ring she had been wearing earlier, and it might be that.
Ollie had been warned within an inch of his life that he was to be on his best behavior, and was towing the line nicely. One long look at Belle when she came in, then he turned back to the provincials, and behaved very properly. Kay saw with approval that the Delfords went forward to rescue Belle from the harpy. She saw with less approval that Travalli had decided to join them again. She was in black tonight too. She looked rather grand, actually, with her bulk trimmed down by the darker color. There—she was off laughing at Dempster again, pointing at the two black gowns and finding it a huge joke. Good God! She surely hadn’t helped herself to one of Lizzie’s gowns! No, certainly not. Lizzie’s gowns all had tops on them, whereas Travalli’s had only a token wisp of something or other between waist and throat. There was Higgins hotfooting it over to La Travalli, kissing her hand and making a cake of himself, with Dempster at his elbow, storing up every word to run back to his near fiancée with. How could men be such fools?
Wine was finished, and with a sinking heart the hostess heard dinner announced. The Avondales she had seated on the same side of the table this time, with a safe six persons between them, so they need neither look at nor speak to each other. She saw with dismay that La Travalli had decided to have Belle’s seat. That would be because she had seated Higgins with Belle. Belle didn’t cut up stiff over it, however, but only looked about for Travalli’s card, and as it was well away from Oliver, she changed places silently. This put her beside Ralph Ponsonby for more lectures on barrows and Roman ruins, but Neville Brewster, a rather nice local chap was at her other side, and if he didn’t take to flirting with her to excite Oliver to wrath, it might do.
Dinner was wretched, simply wretched. The hostess took up the whole soup course explaining to her partners how it came the turtle soup was lumpy. She was at a loss to explain why it should also have clotted cream in it, and thought it better not to draw attention to the fact. She urged wine on everyone, hoping to dull their senses before the dry meat and wet potatoes hit the board. The meat wasn’t dry after all—it was dripping, and underdone mutton was as bad as, if not worse than, overdone. Worse— definitely worse, she decided after one bite. No matter, her reputation was ruined anyway. No one would ever come to her again. She would have to go to the poorhouse and orphanages to fill her table in future.
“Do have another glass of wine, Lord Eldon,” she invited weakly.
“Don’t mind if I do,” he replied, stretching his jaws over the raw mutton. As well call a spade a spade. It was raw.
The turbot was burned black on the bottom, as were the broccoli and asparagus. “Have some more wine, Lady Dempster.”
“I believe I will. Lovely champagne, Kay.”
Mrs. Rochester, a local lady who was making her first appearance at Ashbourne, said loudly, “Stew! How nice. I do like a nice plain stew.”
“Have some wine, Mrs. Rochester.”
“Thank you ever so. Tell me, was your husband related to Shakespeare’s wife?”
“Yes, it is all the same family,” she said, unable to face the dozen explanations required to be free of Anne Hathaway.
Dessert was finally served. Now how could they possibly ruin strawberries? Surely the strawberries were safe. No sugar on them. No sugar on the table, and the cream that should have accompanied them poured into the turtle soup, so that it was milk being passed around. Ghastly! “Care for a little champagne, Mr. Ponsonby? It goes well with strawberries.”
“Thank you, Kay, I will. You’re extravagant—champagne with every course.”
“Ha ha. Fortunately the champagne was not affected by Cook’s illness.” Except that the cellars have been decimated by the quantity of it swilled down.