Devil Water (52 page)

“A pleasant domestic scene,” said Young in his rather stilted way. “I trust I don’t intrude. I took the liberty of bringing you my latest poem, my lady.”

“I’m delighted,” said Betty warmly. “We were feeling rather dull, weren’t we, Frank?”

Her husband roused himself, held out his good hand, indicated in halting speech that the visitor was welcome, then leaned his head back again and shut his eyes. Betty and Young sat down upon a sofa, and began to chat. Jenny returned to the interpretation of Bess’s straggling figures, while she wondered when Rob would come. She had told Lady Betty of her encounter, and in her own most serious and reasonable way had elicited a reluctant permission for Rob to call. “He’s altered, you know,” said Jenny. “He’s no longer a raw Tyneside lad, nor anybody’s servant.”

“I know,” Betty had agreed. She had heard reports of Rob Wilson from her brother. The young man had done a good job at Ditchley Park. Mr. Gibbs, the architect, had been pleased with him and sent him to other building projects later. Rob had remarkably soon risen to the title of master-builder. When last heard of he had set up on his own in London. “Though I still don’t consider him a suitable associate for you, dear,” Betty had added. “Not of your class.”

“He’s the same class as half of me,” said Jenny with a little chuckle. “And you need never fear Rob’d do aught untoward, and anyway he’s probably wed by now.”

Jenny had said this lightly, but as she frowned down at the sprawling columns she wondered if it could be true, and had a qualm of extreme dismay.

She rose nervously as there was another bustle at the door, and Briggs ushered in “The Earl of Peterborough and my Lord Mordaunt.”

Betty was astonished by these callers. The old Earl seldom left Parson’s Green and the company of his Mrs. Robinson, while young Mordaunt, his grandson and heir, Betty scarcely knew at all. Mordaunt was a big lumpish youth of sixteen, who had a habit of blinking, and who seemed to be stricken quite dumb after his mumbled courtesies, and stood miserably staring at the poker.

His grandfather frowned at him. “Awkward young puppy,” said the Earl to Betty. “But I’ll shape him up yet. Does Miss Lee play the instrument?”

“Why, yes,” said Betty beginning to see light. “Jenny, take Lord Mordaunt to the harpischord and play something. He’s fond of music.”

As Jenny obeyed with some reluctance, the Earl and Betty exchanged a look of humorous understanding, and Peterborough said, “Nothing serious in view, of course, they’re both so young, yet I’d like to see if a beautiful girl like that couldn’t strike a spark, don’t you know!” He gave Betty a sprightly wink, and walking over to Frank Lee, sat down by the Colonel and began to entertain him with the latest coffeehouse tidbits.

Jenny looked up from the harpsichord, and said, “What shall I play, my lord? I’m not very skilled.”

Young Mordaunt blinked, he turned red under his spots, his adam’s apple rose and fell. Finally he said, “S-something rousing like ‘Lilliburlero’ -- would you know that, ma’am?”

“To be sure,” Jenny laughed. “By heart.” Under her dark lashes, her long eyes gave him their unconscious look of coquetry, and soon, as she played, the youth was bending over her and humming the words in evident enjoyment.

On the sofa Dr. Young, having shown Betty his poem and basked in her praise, motioned towards the harpsichord, where the youngsters were giving a spirited rendition of “Lilliburlero,” the great Whig rallying song. “The Duke of Wharton’s father wrote that,” Young remarked. “ ‘Tis a pity his grace’s
own
convictions are so unstable.”

“Yes,” Betty agreed shrugging. “Philip is certainly unstable. I wonder how you endure him as a patron.”

“I’ve had to,” said Young seriously. “And he was most generous at times. But he’s different now, if I may be frank -- there is a deterioration -- also, he is going abroad. I very much fear,” said Young lowering his voice, “that he’s going over to the Jacks again. I am certain he’s been corresponding with the Pretender.”

“So you’ll have to find another patron,” said Betty sympathetically. “ ‘Tis shame so fine a poet cannot live by his works.”

Young leaned forward. “I have hopes, my lady, that Sir Robert Walpole may speak a word in my favor for a Crown grant, and perhaps you or Colonel Lee . . .” He left the sentence dangling, while he looked at her with earnest, rather doggy eyes.

Betty was more amused than annoyed. “We’ve no influence at all any more,” she said briskly. “I had rather hoped you sought my company from simple compatibility, nothing else.”

“I did, I do,” said Young flushing, “only--”

“Only there’s no harm in trying!” said Betty laughing. “Come, Dr. Young, don’t pull a long face. I like you very much. Recite to me again from your ‘Love of Fame, the Universal Passion’ -- a cynical title with which I don’t
quite
agree.”

Young’s eager acquiescence was interrupted by the arrival of more callers. William Byrd and Evelyn.

Jenny jumped up from the harpsichord and kissed her friend, whom she had not seen in some weeks. Evelyn was dressed in white with touches of gray and mauve, as though she were in second-year mourning. This was one of the many willful peculiarities she had imposed on her father, ever since his destruction of her affair with Sir Wilfred Lawson. Outwardly compliant, the dutiful affectionate daughter, she yet managed to do exactly as she pleased, and Byrd who was anxiously fond of her, often felt an unhappy bewilderment, and even -- sometimes -- fear.

He was embarrassed to find the Earl of Peterborough at the Lees’. Last year Sir Wilfred had married the well-dowered Elizabeth Lucy Mordaunt, Lord Peterborough’s plain-featured niece. It was impossible not to reflect that a man considered good enough to marry a Mordaunt might certainly have been considered good enough to marry a Byrd. Byrd’s own motives in violently breaking up Evelyn’s love affair were no longer as clear to him as they had been. He was not one for regrets or introspection, and he felt entirely justified, since Sir Wilfred had indeed cooled off upon finding that Evelyn would not have a penny.

Evelyn now augmented her father’s discomfort by greeting Lord Peterborough with extreme cordiality and saying at once in her low deliberate voice, “And
do
tell me, my lord, how is your new nephew Sir Wilfred and dear Lady Lawson?”

“Quite well, I believe. I see them seldom,” answered Peterborough a trifle astonished. He knew nothing of the abortive love affair, and thought the intensity of Evelyn’s question, the hint of malice in her handsome dark eyes rather odd.

“My wife, Mrs. Byrd,” interjected Byrd loudly to Betty, “begs to send her respects, my lady -- she has not entirely recovered from her lying-in or she would have come today.”

“I’m sorry to hear she’s ailing,” said Betty politely. “You must bring her here soon.” Though Maria Taylor Byrd was the most shadowy possible figure to her, and Mr. Byrd himself did not interest her. She was merely sympathetic towards the long friendship between Evelyn and Jenny.

“What do you hear from Virginia, sir?” asked Peterborough of Byrd. “I’m sure Colonel Lee will be interested.” He turned to include the man huddled in the armchair who said, “Yes -- indeed,” while his dull eyes grew livelier, and he struggled to join hospitably in all this untoward gaiety by looking at Betty and forcing out the word “Refresh-ment.”

“Oh lud,” she said beneath her breath, wondering what the condition of the larder was. “I’ll ring at once!” and pulled the bell rope.

The two girls drifted together, and Jenny whispered, “Help me entertain Mordaunt.” They glanced at the youth, who was moodily stabbing out notes on the harpsichord.

“Why not?” said Evelyn. “I’m most fascinated by the Mordaunt family I assure you. Is this a suitor for your hand?”

“Merciful heaven!” Jenny cried. “Really, Eve, the things you say. I can’t imagine why we’re still friends.”

The mocking light died from Evelyn’s face, she gave Jenny a look of pure affection. “You’re the only one I have,” she said, quietly.

Jenny was deeply touched, though she protested, “Yet you go out in the world a lot, you meet so
many
people with your father!”

“Ha!” said Evelyn. “I meet toadies and lick-spittles, or I meet those who expect
us
to toady and lick-spittle. None of these are friends.”

Jenny was silent. She only partially understood Evelyn’s bitterness or at least the continuance of it, and she knew that there had been several tentative marriage offers which the girl had squashed in the most decisive manner, though it seemed to amuse her to provoke them, and raise her father’s hopes.

“Evelyn,” she said, “are you unhappy with your new stepmother? Is it hard to live with her?”

“Not in the least,” said Evelyn calmly. “Mrs. Byrd is an amiable woman. She has to be to endure me -- and my father -- poor man --” she added with a faint enigmatic smile.

Jenny sighed and gave it up. She put her hand on her friend’s arm, “Well -- come and frizzelate at Lord Mordaunt, I pray you. I’ve done my share.”

“And it is
you
he wants,” said Evelyn laughing, “if those languishing calf looks mean anything. Still, I’ll try.” She walked to the harpsichord and addressed something to the youth, who jumped and turned scarlet. At that moment Briggs entered the room and walked towards Betty.

“There’s a -- a gentleman below, m’lady,” he said nervously. “ ‘E asks for Miss Jenny, but ‘e come to the
back
door. I didn’t know where to put ‘im.”

Betty turned and gave Jenny a meaning look. The girl had heard, and stood tensely, twisting her fingers.

“You have a caller, Jenny,” said Betty. “We’ll ask him up here.”

Jenny felt a wash of panic -- not Rob in here with
these
people! Jenny had never imagined anything like that, she had thought they might meet for a while in the anteroom below. For the first time in her life she was angry at Lady Betty, who had already given Briggs the command, and on whose face was clearly marked a “cruel in order to be kind” expression. She
wants
me to be ashamed of him, Jenny thought. She wants him to look a fool. Jenny backed away until she stood apart from the rest, pressed against the window seat.

Rob came in slowly, unannounced by Briggs, who didn’t know what to make of him. Jenny exhaled her breath, as he hesitated a moment at the door. His eyes grew puzzled, defensive, as he saw all the fashionable company, yet there was dignity about him. He looked very odd to Jenny, for his wig was powdered, his plain white cravat was correctly knotted, there were silver buttons on his long buff waistcoat -- in short, he was dressed like gentry. When Betty, coming forward, said “Good day, Mr. Wilson,” he bowed over her hand and answered “Good day, my lady --please to accept my compliments” with scarcely any awkwardness, and in a voice which held only a faint inflection of the North. And he was so big, Jenny thought, still watching from her corner. He towered half a head over them all, as he gravely bowed again in response to Betty’s quick introductions.

“May I present Mr. Wilson, who was engaged in the rebuilding of Ditchley for my brother Lichfield -- my Lord Peterborough -- my Lord Mordaunt -- Mr. Byrd and Miss Byrd, Dr. Young -- Colonel Lee -- oh, and I believe you’ve already met my ward -- Miss Lee.”

Rob and Jenny exchanged a look while she sketched a tiny curtesy. Jenny barely suppressed a wild desire to giggle. She did not suppress a glance of triumph at Lady Betty.

“Come seat yourself here with us, sir,” said Betty quickly, patting the sofa. “I’m sure we’re all vastly ignorant of house-building. Is it true that you work now in the new sites north of the Oxford Road?”

“Oh?” said Peterborough with interest. “Y’aren’t by chance the architect fellow whose doing Bingley’s house on Cavendish Square?”

Rob shook his head. “No, my lord, I’m only a builder in a small way as yet. I’m raising a house on Wigmore Row, and hope to find a buyer for it.”

“Indeed,” said Byrd. He intended to rebuild “Westover” when he finally returned to Virginia, and had studied several books of designs. “What sort of brick do you use, and where do you get your timber?”

“I get gray stocks from Camden, sir, and fir logs from the Baltic. I’ve a bit o’ mahogany from Jamaica on hand too,” Rob added proudly. “I’ll use it for the stair rails.”

“Do you do the carpentry
yourself?”
asked Byrd, raising his eyebrows. Noblewomen like Lady Betty were entitled to their whims, but one did not expect to rub shoulders with a tradesman in her drawing room.

“Aye. ‘Tis what I’ve learned best, sir, carpentry -- I’ve let out contracts to the others -- bricklayers, slaters, plumbers, and the rest.”

“Ah --” said Byrd shrugging. “In Virginia we train the blacks to all those trades, and a bonded servant or two over ‘em.”

“Slavery is certainly a far less costly system,” said Lord Peterborough smoothly, “since obviously nobody has to be paid at
all.”

“They have to be fed and housed and doctored,” said Byrd with as much sharpness as he would permit himself to an earl. Byrd was annoyed by what he took to be criticism of Virginia, and disappointed in the company. He would have taken his leave at once, except that Evelyn was sitting beside Lord Mordaunt on the music bench, and also Briggs finally staggered in bearing a trayful of chocolate cups and cake.

Jenny helped dispense the food, and had a bad moment as she saw Rob balancing the delicate porcelain cup in his great brown hand. He gave her a long considering glance, as though he wondered if she were trying to make game of him. She shook her head slightly in denial, and his eyes smiled ruefully, though the rest of his square, dark face remained sober while he answered the old Earl’s continuing questions. Peterborough had retained curiosity about almost everything, he found this young Wilson knowledgeable, and the Earl cared not a jot whether a man were technically a gentleman or not, if he were congenial.

Evelyn, while drinking chocolate, abruptly abandoned young Mordaunt and came over to join Jenny on the window seat. “Who is that very large young man?” she whispered, gesturing towards Rob.

“I -- used to know him,” said Jenny, blushing.