Authors: The Misses Millikin
Sir Randall offered no further explanation, and it was hardly Angelica’s place to interrogate him. Supposing he would eventually inform her of the tasks required of her, she too took a sandwich. There fell a companionable silence, broken only by the sound of munching.
Now that Angelica had opportunity for reflection, a number of things struck her as perplexing. Sir Randall feared spies? Who would wish to pry into the affairs of an eminent physician, no matter how eccentric? What might have he have to hide? Perhaps this dread of spies was merely a delusion attendant upon advancing age. If so, it was the greatest of pities. The cherubic doctor deserved to live an existence freed from such petty aggravations, real or imaginary. Covertly, she glanced at him.
“Durward is the worst,” Sir Randall said gloomily. “My valet. You’ll make his acquaintance soon enough, I’ll warrant; the long-nosed wretch won’t be able to refrain from stealing a peek at you. If Durward had been employed by Boney, the French would never have lost the war.” He selected another sandwich. “I suppose I should be proud to have rendered the nation so valuable a service by taking Durward into
my
employ.”
The situation, decided Angelica, grew momentarily more curious. Gently she intimated that, if Sir Randall did not approve of his valet, he might dismiss him from his post.
“Send him off with a flea in his ear? Would that I could. But the next would doubtless be even worse.” Sir Randall forestalled further interrogation by popping the sandwich, in its entirety, into his mouth. Footsteps sounded in the hallway, a delicate mincing tread. Murmured Sir Randall, in garbled tones: “Prepare yourself, Miss Smith.”
Chapter Six
Beneath the hipped roof of Chalmers House, a musical party was underway. A lady of opulent stature and piercing voice had been lured away from the Italian opera to perform a number of arias for Lady Chalmers’s guests; Lady Chalmers herself had been persuaded to execute a piece on the piano, and did so very well; Miss Lily Millikin had made her debut at the harp, on which instrument she displayed a surprising expertise. Then came a break in the entertainment so that the guests might refresh themselves before being subjected to the offerings of lesser celebrities.
It was a pleasant evening’s entertainment, the guests agreed, as the gentlemen hovered over the punchbowl and the ladies took their ease. Everyone appeared to be enjoying himself immensely, with the possible exception of the hostess’s family.
This odd circumstance had brought itself to the attention of Lily, as it might be expected to have done, in light of her rampant curiosity. In truth, she could hardly have failed to note that Rosemary was out of sorts, since Rosemary was kicking up a dust beneath Lily’s very nose.
“Cruelly unfeeling!” Rosemary repeated, in case Fennel failed to take her point. “It passes human bearing that you should have put us to the blush. To go off and leave us unescorted—how
could
you do such a thing?”
Fennel regarded his sisters tolerantly, not a bit abashed by these very great incivilities. “Take a damper!” said he. “No use crying over spilt milk.”
Rosemary looked as though she contemplated physical violence, and was prohibited only by the presence of her guests. “Coxcomb!” she snapped, and turned smartly on her heel.
Lily gazed after her sister, who wore a satin gown with festooned trimming, bordered with rouleaux, the sleeves and bodice slashed, and on her golden curls a cap ornamented with rosebuds; and then returned her attention to Fennel. Her brother, she noted, was looking studiously Byronesque. “Poor Rosemary!” said she.
Fennel did not respond, but stared absently into space, on his handsome face a look of great and pleasurable abstraction, due to reminiscence concerning a merry damsel with rosy cheeks and cherry lips and a delightfully vulgar turn of speech. Lily, who was unaware of this damsel’s existence, and who therefore assumed that her brother was air-dreaming about drinking cups fashioned from human skulls and silver funerary urns from Greece, reached out an elegant little hand and pinched him smartly.
Fennel winced. “Ears like seashells, I swear it!” he muttered, absently rubbing his bruised arm. “Teeth like pearls!”
Lily eyed her brother curiously. “Gracious, Fennel, I know that!”
Fennel grinned. He knew better than to make privy to his sisters the fact of his new acquaintance. Lily would wax rapturous about love and romance; Angelica would subject him to a lengthy interrogation concerning Miss Holloway’s character and background; Rosemary was bound to disapprove. “Not you, puss. It’s deuced hot in here. Think I’ll have some punch!”
In turn, Lily watched her brother’s departure. Unless she misread the signs, with which she was very familiar, Fennel was very far gone in infatuation, an affliction to which all the Millikins were prone, save Angelica. Simultaneously reminded of both her sisters and her swains, Lily gracefully craned her neck. Messrs. Gildensleeve and Meadowcraft, Steptoe and Pettijohn stood gazing on her at a humble distance, on their faces identical expressions of calf-love. What dear boys they were! thought Lily, and awarded them a collective smile that made all four look besottedly blissful.
Lily had no time, just then, in which to receive gallantries; she wished to speak with Angelica before the entertainment resumed. The eldest of her sisters, mused Lily, as she turned away—causing uniform disappointment to settle upon Messrs. Gildensleeve and Meadowcraft, Steptoe and Pettijohn—was exhibiting behavior that was distinctly freakish. Where did Angelica slip away to each afternoon in so clandestine a fashion? Rosemary and Fennel appeared unaware of this strange behavior, both being occupied with concerns of their own; but Lily’s dreamy eyes overlooked little, and certainly nothing so intriguing as Angelica’s disappearances.
Had Angelica an admirer? wondered Lily, as she made her way toward her eldest sister, engaged in conversation with Lord Chalmers and another gentleman near the marble-faced fireplace. Was the practical member of the family embarked upon assignations with an ineligible
parti?
It seemed a reasonable assumption. Lily could think of no more logical reason for Angelica’s queer behavior, behavior that would be unnecessary were the gentleman unexceptionable. Poor Angelica! Left on the shelf without ever having had a single chance to fritter away.
As grows obvious, Lily was not particularly distressed at the notion that her eldest sister was embarked upon an unsuitable
affaire.
Had she been taxed with this lapse from propriety, Lily might have opened wide her lovely eyes and answered simply that the Millikins thought the world well lost for romance. Why should Angelica be the sole exception, the one member of the family to sow no wild oats, however belatedly?
Nonetheless, Lily was distressed on Angelica’s behalf. She feared that her sister’s ineligible suitor would play fast and loose with her, would leave her to wear the willow—and what would happen to the rest of the family were the sensible Angelica to sink into a decline? The thought made Lily very melancholy.
Angelica bore no look of a lady thus afflicted, was in fact carrying on her conversation with animation. She looked very nice, mused Lily, in her dress of blue crape vandyked around the petticoat, and with her hair drawn back in ringlets from her face. Lord Chalmers apparently agreed with this assessment; he was regarding his eldest sister-in-law appreciatively. What a coil was this! sighed Lily to herself. If only Lord Chalmers displayed equal admiration for his wife! He must be induced to do so, but how? Deeply pondering, Lily made her way through the guests, a progress that was not rapid, for Lily was the most popular person possible with all parties. Behind her at a respectful distance trailed Messrs. Meadow-craft and Gildensleeve, Steptoe and Pettijohn.
“All the workers are hungry, angry, and loud in their protests,” Lord Chalmers was saying, as Lily at last arrived. “The cotton-spinners in Lancashire and iron-moulders at Merthyr Tydfil, the Spitalfields silk-weavers, the Leicestershire stockingers and the Nottinghamshire hosiers. These accursed Hampden clubs! Heaven knows where it will end.” He made an irritable gesture, and in so doing espied the newcomer. “Ah, Lily! May I make known to you His Grace the Duke of Kingscote, a friend in all but matters of government? Gervaise, Miss Millikin is another of my wife’s sisters.”
“Charmed,” said the duke, with patent insincerity, as Lily dropped a pretty curtsey.
“Chalmers is a Tory,” explained Angelica,
sotto voce.
“Kingscote is a Whig.”
“The laborers,” continued Lord Chalmers, “have arisen
en masse
to destroy machinery, to which they attribute the wretched condition of the economy. In Nottinghamshire, Leicestershire and Derbyshire the Luddites have broken out again, by night demolishing stocking-frames and cotton-mill machinery.”
Though Angelica found this discourse stimulating, it was clear that her sister did not. “His Grace,” murmured Angelica to Lily, who wore a glazed expression, “is but recently returned to England from abroad. Lord Chalmers is catching him up on current events.”
“The labor market,” added Chalmers, “is additionally flooded by thousands of ex-soldiers and sailors; and the fierce competition for those jobs that do exist has forced wages down even further, a situation for which the government is held to blame. It is a deuced touchy situation, Gervaise.”
“I make no doubt it is,” replied His Grace, blandly taking snuff. “I hear that at St. Ives the populace celebrated Christmas by throwing a tax-collector out the window. Admirably enterprising folk! Meanwhile Weston is trying to pass even more restrictions on the exclusion of foreign produce— rapeseed and linseed, tallow and butter and cheese, at last count, I believe.” He shook his head. “Oh, you Tories!”
“Lord Chalmers!” Angelica was inspired by the feral gleam in the baron’s eye to hastily intervene. “I believe that a gentleman is trying to attract your attention. There, by the doorway!”
Chalmers glared in that direction. “I see no one.”
“Could I have been mistaken?” Angelica energetically fanned herself, while the duke watched ironically. “Perhaps I have grown overheated! I think, a glass of lemonade?”
Lord Chalmers regarded his eldest sister-in-law, then smiled. “Lest I indulge in dagger-drawing in my own home with my own guest? I stand rebuked! In reward you shall have your lemonade, Angelica. Do you care to accompany me?” Angelica cast a glance at Lily, who was looking very, very vague. Until she had time to reach certain decisions, Angelica had no wish for lengthy converse with any of her siblings. She agreed.
Bereft of her quarry, denied the opportunity to ask any of the questions that buzzed bee-like through her brain, Lily studied the duke. He was a gentleman of eight-and-thirty, of medium height and wiry physique. His hair was brown, his countenance swarthy, his eyes dark and his nose hooked. He was homely, superior, understatedly and indescribably elegant.
Lily knew who Kingscote was; all England did, for wherever the duke went, his reputation preceded him—and, since the duke was of nomadic constitution, that reputation had penetrated the far corners of the earth. His Grace was one of the highest-bred men in England, with a fortune to match; he was a man of the world who did everything with regal magnificence. By the countless dazzling barques of frailty with whose favors he had been gifted, the total of whom even Kingscote himself had lost count, he was universally adored. He was of too advanced an age and too aloof a disposition to appeal to Lily, of course, but Angelica had seemed to rub on with him well enough. Perhaps here was a gentleman of sufficient seriousness and cleverness to suit. Lily cleared her throat.
The duke had not been unaware that Miss Lily Millikin was staring at him, but he had paid her little heed; young ladies always
did
stare at Gervaise, usually with a large degree of avarice. The duke was a bachelor, and determined to so remain; when he wished feminine companionship it was readily available; when he did not wish it he was free to pursue his adventurous inclinations wherever fancy led him, without the impediment of trailing skirts. Satirically, he surveyed Lily.
Certainly she was a beauty; it was scant wonder that she had created so great a sensation oh her debut. But Kingscote was far beyond the age of being overwhelmed by loveliness—beyond, in fact, being overwhelmed by anything. As did all things, beauty in surfeit lost its allure. He supposed he could not deny this young lady her opportunity to attract his interest to herself without appearing rude—despite the tedium attendant upon plaguesome damsels, the number of which seemed to increase each year, His Grace was never rude. It was said of him by a long succession of Cyprians that no gentleman alive knew how to deliver a more kindly, or generous
congé.
Since he was doomed to ennui, he would make the best of it. Gervaise placed a wager with himself on which ploy the Fair Incomparable might utilize, and how many minutes it would be before she fatigued him beyond tolerance. “You wished to speak, Miss Millikin?” he inquired gently.
“Yes, sir.” Lily awarded this perceptiveness the highest marks. “Would you explain to me—what is the difference between a Tory and a Whig?”
Here was an unusual gambit! Perhaps the duke would not grow bored as quickly as he’d expected. “Primarily that the Tories are in power,” he replied. “We Whigs are great at denouncing everything the government does, but fundamentally we believe the same things.”
“That doesn’t help me very much,” said Lily, whose efforts toward enlightenment had caused her to frown most charmingly. “I am very ignorant in such matters—in a great many matters! But though I am not precisely needle-witted, I can generally understand if someone properly explains. Would you mind so much explaining to me, sir?”
Amused by such gargantuan effort—and why the devil should such a pretty widgeon wish to understand politics?— Gervaise obliged. “The Tories embody the tradition of resistance to the aggressive principles of Revolutionary France—to change in any guise. Reform is anathema to them. It is the widespread belief of the Tories—of the upper classes in general—that the only way to maintain law and order is to suppress the masses.”