Authors: The Misses Millikin
Durward’s solution met with unanimous approval. He withdrew to fetch the coffins and a cart. Marigold hefted her shovel experimentally, assured herself that her victim was not likely to regain consciousness for some time, and stared censoriously at her stepdaughter. “Ungrateful girl!” she said, and launched upon an explanation of this condemnation, very dramatically delivered, thick with references to ugly ducklings and adders teeth, unsteadinesses of character and descents into profligacy. “I never heard of anything half so shocking!” concluded Marigold, unfairly and with considerable untruth. “You needn’t try and tell me you didn’t throw out lures, my girl;
I
wasn’t born yesterday!”
“That much,” said Simon irritably, for he was trying to carry on a sensible conversation with the object of Marigold’s strictures, “is obvious!” Marigold’s mouth dropped open. Simon led the ugly duckling some slight distance away.
“It was very kind of you,” murmured Angelica shyly, to her escort, “to rush to my defense! Can it be that you do not like my stepmama?”
“Your stepmama,” responded Simon, who hadn’t the slightest wish to discuss Marigold, “is a pretty widgeon. So are your sisters, if Lady Chalmers is any example. Which reminds me that they are no longer to be your responsibility!”
“No?” Angelica blinked. “But I promised my papa—”
“On his deathbed! Drivel! I doubt that your father meant they should take eternal advantage of you.”
It was a novel experience to hear her dazzling siblings spoken of in such unappreciative tones—so novel that Angelica misdoubted her ears. Diffidently she pointed out that it was the way of the world: creatures so blessed with beauty as the Millikins could not help but take advantage of those less fortunate.
“Fishing for compliments?” inquired Simon. “I find you quite lovely, my darling, much more so than your stepmother and your sister. All that yellow hair is distinctly commonplace! And now—”
“Now,” interrupted Angelica, who knew very well what Simon wished to say and even how she would respond, but who wished most ignobly to prolong as much as possible her moment of triumph, “I owe you any number of apologies! I spun you the most appalling taradiddles, but—”
“My love, I know.” Simon smiled to see the expression with which Angelica greeted this endearment. “What I have not pieced together you may explain to me later. But now—”
“Will you answer me just one question?” Angelica asked quickly. “Why did you set spies on your father if he’s done nothing dreadful?”
“My father,” responded Simon, as he took matters into his own hands and Angelica into his arms, “is a curst nuisance. He has no more sense of self-preservation than that tree! Left to his own devices he will neither eat nor sleep—he can spend an appalling amount of time in such activities as observing the animals in the Royal Exchange, which may in itself be unexceptionable, but not when in so doing he disappears for an entire week! It was after he’d laid on his belly by that damned fishpond of his for days—during which it rained and after which he came down with an influenza!—that I introduced Durward into the household.”
“Oh!” Angelica’s voice was very small. “I suspected you of the most dreadful things!”
“And I you, my love.” Simon’s gaze was warm. “We shall forgive one another, I think. Even if you do not forgive me, I shall not care, so long as you marry me just the same.”
“Oh!” said Angelica again, her cheeks pink. “If that is truly what you want, I think I would like it very well—and then will you explain to me what is an orgy?”
“Better.” Simon’s voice was gruff. “I promise I will
show
you what an orgy is.”
This avowal, delivered with much more vigor than was necessary to reach ears scant inches away from the speaker’s lips, occasioned much comment. Between kisses Angelica confessed rather incoherently that she had some time past confided in her eldest brother a wish to meet a gentleman most impenetrably taciturn; Valerian broke off a discussion with Sir Randall about the skeleton of a giant currently on exhibit in a raree-show to modestly admit his small part in the romance, as Sir Randall did his own; Marigold, who had already been put out of humor by Simon’s comment that she was common-looking—Marigold made up in acuteness of hearing for what she lacked in brains—was by this intimation that her spinster stepdaughter was to enjoy pleasures forbidden her stepmama sent straight up into the boughs.
“Shocking!” she cried. “Scandalous! Never did I think to hear my own stepdaughter express a taste for depravity!” To Angelica’s protests that she wished to know what an orgy
was,
not to engage in one; Simon’s averral that Angelica would wish very much to engage in an orgy, once she knew what it was, enlightenment which he would provide immediately the knot was tied, Marigold paid no heed. “My health is ruined!” she announced dramatically. “Now I am to be deprived of my sole means of support.”
By this effusion, Angelica understood Marigold referred to herself. Long the means by which the Millikins were saved from the consequences of their worst excesses, Angelica could not abandon them, no matter how great her wish to do precisely that. Nor could she inquire of Simon if he had reflected soberly upon the drawbacks of marriage to a female so encumbered as herself. Yet to fail to point out that unpalatable fact was wholly reprehensible. The ethical ramifications of the situation made Angelica’s head ache.
Not surprisingly, Angelica’s throbbing brow recalled her enfeebled state of health. She put forth to Valerian her opinion that syrup of poppies and a hot brick did absolutely nothing to relieve dizziness and palpitations and an oppression on the chest. “Nothing will relieve it!” Valerian responded, in funereal tones. “What ails you, Sis, is love!”
In that case, if she were in love with Simon Brisbane, which seemed the most logical explanation of everything concerned, Angelica could not in good conscience repress mention of her encumbrances. Said Simon, who had grown very weary of hearing about all the drawbacks to his marriage: “Leave the brats to your brother! He’ll deal with them!”
In response to this startling notion, Angelica stared up into Simon’s dissipated face. “You jest!
Valerian?”
“Valerian what?” inquired that individual, from his tombstone.
Simon drew Angelica’s hand through his arm and led her back to the others. During their conversation Durward had returned and again departed, complete with coffins, resurrectionists and cart. “I was explaining to your sister,” Simon said in brisk no-nonsense tones, “that you are to take on the responsibility of the younger members of the family.”
When Valerian had advised Simon to adopt a high-handed attitude, he had not meant that attitude to be applied to himself. So Valerian might have stated had not Marigold thrown her arms around his neck. “Oh!” she cried. “I wish you would! Pray say you will! I should be most extraordinarily grateful! Because no matter what anyone may say about you, Valerian, they cannot deny you
cope
excellently!”
“Balderdash!” Valerian sought half-heartedly to free himself. “Have you forgot I don’t like you above half?”
Marigold relaxed her death grip and stepped back sufficiently far that Valerian could see how enchantingly she smiled. “Dear Valerian! What has
liking
to do with anything?”
Very little, it appeared: confronted with a deliciously tempting female only five scant years older than himself, Valerian sought what seemed a logical alleviation of his dizziness and palpitations and the oppression on his chest. Said action, which consisted of embracing his stepmama in so enthusiastic a manner that he very nearly tumbled off his tombstone, must not be construed as remedy for the malady to which all Millikins were prey; so far was it from providing relief that it resulted in the addition to the previously-enumerated symptoms of a bell-like ringing in the ears.
Sir Randall readjusted his spectacles and murmured ironically: “Physician, heal thyself!”
“Gracious!” Angelica stared dumbfounded at her dispassionate, indifferent, shrewd elder brother, who was currently looking none of those things. “I hesitate to cast a damper—but is this precisely
legal?”
Valerian raised his head from his stepmama’s golden curls, which smelled like heaven mingled with rather more earthly delights. He had not yet lost all his wits, however; to the notion of an existence shared with Marigold, he said, horrified: “Legal? I devoutly hope not!”
This highly unflattering rejoinder, Marigold let pass. She was, after all, a lovely lady who possessed a son-in-law so influential in government circles that he could if necessary ensure the passage of an act of Parliament to enable a lovely widow to marry her own stepson. Marigold did say, however, and very much belatedly: “Mercy! Where is
Lily?”
Chapter Twenty-five
Miss Lily Millikin suspected that she had not been altogether wise. It was all very well to plot an elopement while under the influence of the grape, and to embark upon it in a noble spirit of self-sacrifice; but Lily’s motives had in the cold light of day begun to seem less valiant than absurd. If Angelica’s preference was for a hardened rakeshame, and a diabolically attractive one to boot, she was not likely to settle for a hundred Kingscotes. Life was a sadly mismanaged business, decided Lily, who would have preferred the duke over a thousand rakeshames.
Alas, it was not to be, and on that point she would hold firm. At least she had with this elopement insured that there would be no marriage between them; with it, she had ruined her good name. Young ladies of quality simply did not go wandering unchaperoned about the countryside. Moreover, Lily was not only unchaperoned, she was unaccompanied except by servants. It was not at all her idea of what an elopement should be. In fact, Lily decided, it was all very queer.
This escapade had begun ordinarily enough, with the note left in properly dramatic style for her family, followed by the requisite secretive rendezvous; but from that point onward events had turned positively bizarre. Within the carriage, which was remarkably comfortable for a job-coach, had waited no anxious lover, no ardent buccaneer. Lily had traveled what seemed a very great distance, with naught but her thoughts for company. At length the carriage had drawn up before a country inn. Lily was handed down from the coach, conducted reverently by no less august a personage than the innkeeper into a private room, informed that “himself” would be with her in a wink. Lily was left alone to await the arrival of “himself’ and to ponder that individual’s identity. A brief exploration of her surroundings revealed little of interest: the tiny room was snug, with shuttered windows and a cozy fireplace, a low ceiling and a sawdust-covered floor—and a locked door. Lily collapsed onto a wooden chair.
What kind of man would leave her to travel alone to heaven knew what destination? Could the buccaneer fear to show his face by daylight? Was he not a man of substance and breeding, but a common criminal? And if so, what would be
her
end?
As Lily pondered these matters, growing momentarily more lachrymose, the door once more opened. The landlord entered, followed by two maidservants. Each carried a heavy tray. The contents of those trays were arranged temptingly upon a table. Then the landlord crossed to a certain window, threw open the shutters, tipped Lily a wink, and once more left her to solitude.
With some astonishment Lily eyed the table—laden now with, among other things, pigeon-pie and spurling, capons and collard head, a tansy-cake and what looked to be a bottle of ale. Surely the innkeeper could not credit so small a person as Lily with so large an appetite? On one score, anyway, he had judged very well. Lily hefted the bottle of ale.
Came a noise behind her and Lily spun around. Gracefully through the window leapt her buccaneer. Gone was the elaborate costume of the masquerade ball; he wore this day a riding coat of blue superfine and pale salmon marcella waistcoat, green kerseymere unmentionables, but Lily didn’t for an instant doubt his identity. He had not discarded his mask.
With something less than enthusiasm, Lily contemplated her courtier, who returned the compliment. Miss Millikin had attired herself very fashionably for her elopement in a spencer of Sardinian blue, a neckscarf of white with blue stripes, a carriage dress of white poplin with a deep flounce; yellow shoes; a glorious bonnet with a small crown and helmet front, trimmed with wreaths of blue flowers and two white feathers, tied in a rakish and ribbon bow under her pretty chin. “You are out of charity with me, Lily?” inquired the gentleman, with laudable perspicacity.
“I have begun to think that I have been very silly,” responded Lily, with immeasurable dignity. “It was most foolhardy to go running off with a man I do not know—or
do
I know you, sir? Sometimes you seem oddly familiar. I daresay it is only my imagination, which is
very
good! And although I have decided that you do not mean to ship me off to join some sultan’s harem, I think it would be an excellent idea if you would send me home.”
The gentleman appeared neither surprised nor dismayed by this request, due partially to his full face mask, and partially to the air of sublime unconcern with which he moved around the room to unfasten Lily’s bonnet’s ribbons. “A harem? My dear child!”
“I am
not
a child, and I am perfectly aware that slavery rings exist!”‘ Lily allowed herself to be divested of her bonnet and her spencer and her neck-scarf, then accepted a well-laden plate. “I know it is very shabby of me to try and hedge off now, when you have gone to such trouble, but if you should not object I would like to be taken home.”
“Yes, but I do object,” said the gentleman, not unreasonably, as he made great inroads on the pigeon-pie. “Are you angry because I did not accompany you here? I am sorry for it but there are reasons why I could not. I left very explicit instructions that you should be made comfortable in my absence.”
“Oh, I was! Every attention was given me.” Gloomily Lily pushed away her plate; beseechingly she addressed her companion. “Do try and understand—it is horrid to contemplate an alliance devoid of sentiment! If I cannot marry Kingscote, and obviously I cannot, then I will marry no one. It is very bad of me; I am fully conscious of the shocking advantage I have taken of your kindness; this is the most awkward of businesses—but do be a good fellow and take me home!”