Dido and Pa (18 page)

"Oh, it's that feller as calls himself the margrave of Bad Thingamajig. He was holding a big assembly tonight, what he called a musical swarry. My boy Alf is a page at Cinnamon Court, the margrave's place; he told me there were a lot of nobs coming. There was going to be music and refreshments, everything very a la."

I wonder if he sent an invitation to Sophie and me? thought Simon as coach after glittering coach passed their
weary, mud-splashed troop. Perhaps Sophie is there now? Perhaps I ought to call in and offer to escort her home? But it would hardly do for me to present myself at such a gathering in my torn breeches and powder-grimed jacket.

He rode on his way.

"Daughter, his excellency is giving a musical soirée this evening, at which two of my Eisengrim Concertos are to be played," remarked Mr. Twite, strolling into the lodger's room, where Dido was teaching van Doon how to say "Och, havers" and "Aweel, aweel," while the Dutchman, in his turn, taught Is how to play noughts and crosses. Mr. Twite scowled at this latter activity and demanded, "Has that little wretch nothing better to do than scribble on a bit of paper? Why is she not at work, pray?"

"She's being useful, Pa," said Dido briefly. "She keeps Mr. van Doon from scratching his nose."

"It tickles at me dreadfully," sighed the patient.

"
Sair,
mister; you should say, 'It itches me sair.'"

"It itches me sair," he repeated dutifully. Mr. Twite gave a nod of approval.

"Not bad; not bad at all! You sound just like one of those haggis eaters. —Daughter, I wish you to accompany me to the recital at his excellency's residence."

"Me, Pa? Why?"

Dido was not in the least enchanted at what her father plainly considered a great honor.

"Highty-tighty! Don't take that tone with me, miss! You should be grateful."

"Why?" asked Dido again.

"I wish—Ahem! That is to say—If his excellency should take a liking to you—as he has to our friend here—"

"But that's in the way of business. Ain't it?" said Dido bluntly. "Mister van Doon is useful to his nabs."

"And so could you be, daughter—if you chose. And then your fortune would be made."

"I'd as soon be useful to a crocodile. And a crocodile'd have just about the same use for me, I reckon," said Dido.

"Don't be impertinent, child."

"Anyways, how could I come to a grand party? I ain't got any grand clothes. I'd look as out of place as a herring in a harp factory."

"Fiddlestick," said her father. "You can put on that page's uniform again, then you will sink into the background like a—like—" He sought in vain for the right word.

By this time Dido had thought again. She said, "Oh—very well. Tol-lol. I'll come." It had occurred to her that, by going to the margrave's palace during a musical party when the host, no doubt, would be busy entertaining his guests, she might be able to fulfil her promise to Podge Greenaway and acquire some useful knowledge about his excellency.

"Just you keep on making Mr. van Doon say 'Och, havers' and 'gude sakes,'" she instructed Is. "And whatever
you do, don't let him scratch his nose—even if you have to tie his hands behind his back."

Is nodded solemnly.

Dido ran up to the attic and put on the black velvet page's uniform, which had not been returned to Cinnamon Court. Returning to the ground floor, she heard sounds of angry disputation coming through the open door of Mrs. Bloodvessel's frowsty parlor.

"You won't take
me;
oh, no; but you take along that finical, mopsy little drab!
I'm
not good enough anymore, though it was I introduced you to his excel-
hic!
-excellency, but no, I'm not fine enough to appear at his party now. Time was when I was—when I was his matron of honor—when I'd have been there, receiving the guests, sitting in the front row in pink velvet and pearls. How do you know Eisengrim wouldn't
be pleased
to see me there, enjoying meself—you pig, you!"

"Take a look in the glass, you miserable old canker-moll! Do you think Eisengrim wants to see
that,
gleering at him among the duchesses and viscountesses? Think yourself lucky he don't turn you out of this house! And now
will
you stop badgering on at me? Yes, yes, I'll see you right—I've promised to, haven't I?—when I'm master of the king's music. But, blister me, if you go on like this, I won't, I'll cut loose—Oh, stuff a belcher in it!" Mr. Twite cried in exasperation as she let out a wail. "Here, take a dram of loddy—do; take several drams; only
don't
obfuscate me, just when I'm wondering if I ought to speed up the tempo in the second movement before the fiddle comes in—"

"I'm ready, Pa," Dido said, walking through the door. Mrs. Bloodvessel threw her a venomous look. She reclined on her sofa as usual, with a large glass of her laudanum mixture in one hand, and a half-smoked cigar in the other. At her elbow stood a bottle of port and a plate of bread and butter. She was much flushed.

"Have you let in the lollpoops?" Mr. Twite asked Dido.

"Yes."

"Where's the keys?"

"Here."

"Put them on the mantel."

"Little vixen!" Mrs. Bloodvessel shook her cigar angrily as Dido did so, and a large lump of burning ash fell onto the bedspread. She rubbed it away with the hand that held the glass. "You think yourself so nim, in your black velvet suit—don't you?"

"No, I don't," said Dido. "Not partickle. Pa told me to put it on."

"Oh, yes—he favors
you
—so he does—because you can be useful to him. He favors you," repeated Mrs. Bloodvessel. "But what about me? What about poor little Is, down in the cellar? He got no time for us, any more than if we was lollpoops."

Dido was about to point out that Mrs. Bloodvessel herself had not appeared to set any value on little Is—except as a slave—when her father exclaimed:

"Hold your row, Lily, do! I shall be late if we don't go at once. Drink up your dram—there—and I'll pour you another." He did so, tipping in, Dido noticed, an extra quantity of liquor from a small bottle he pulled out of his hoboy case. "Now then, read a book, why don't you," he advised. "Or—or do some embroidery. Or mend one o' my shirts—they all need it, Lud knows! Come on, Dido.... I will say for Ella Twite," he continued loudly as they went through the door, "she could keep a man mended up and cook a meal, even if it was mostly fish porridge."

As he slammed and locked the front door another wail from Mrs. Bloodvessel showed that this shaft had struck home.

"Pa," said Dido as they hurried along over the snow-covered cobbles. "You said just now that you'd see Mrs. Bloodvessel right when you was master o' the king's music. Is the margrave going to put in a word for you with the king, then? I thought you said the king would be sure to throw you in the Tower for—for Hanoverian jiggery-pokery?"

"Hush!" snapped her father. It was plain that, unlike Mrs. Bloodvessel, he had had nothing to drink, and was as nervous and jumpy as a barrel of weasels. "I'll—I'll explain all that later. Just you keep your mouth shut now and pay attention to what's going on. What
you
have to remember is that his excellency sets a proper value on
me.
He knows there's no one writing music like mine."

I reckon that's true, thought Dido. And ain't it queer.

She wondered what the real reason was for her father's taking her to this party. Guess I'll find out soon enough. Hope there's summat to eat. I'm hollow.

Fare in Bart's Building was scanty, except that provided for Mijnheer van Doon; and little Is was so evidently half
starved that Dido generally gave the child most of her own share of whatever was going.

From several streets away it was plain that a tremendous fete was taking place at Cinnamon Court. Dozens of carriages rolled past them, and when they came in view of the building, they saw that it was a blaze of light, with doors open and red carpet running, not just down the steps but half the length of the street. Glittering conveyances were setting down their passengers, while others waited; knee-breeched, white-wigged footmen were kept busy opening carriage doors and handing down gorgeously dressed ladies and gentlemen. Flaring lights at the gates and on the stone stairway made the scene brighter than day and turned the falling snow to a spangle of gold.

Dido felt shy and out of place, climbing the steps in her page's uniform at the side of her father—who, for once, was tidily dressed in black, though he still wore his red wig and mustache. But the porter bowed respectfully to him, and it was plain to Dido that he and his music were an important part of the evening's program.

This time they did not turn into the small music room but made their way up a double flight of stairs to a vast saloon, already more than half filled with guests, who strolled or chatted or sat on groups of gilt chairs. Along one side of the room a row of huge windows gave onto the river. On a platform at the far end a small orchestra was assembling; the string players were quietly tuning their instruments, the spinnet player had opened the lid of his and was peering inside it, the flautists were softly comparing notes. Mr.
Twite started toward the platform at a purposeful pace, evidently forgetting all about Dido.

"Where shall I go, Pa?" she asked urgently, before she had lost him for good.

"Ah—humph. Ah—just mingle with the guests, why don't you, my chickadee, until it is time for us to start playing."

"Don't be silly, Pa—that won't do at all.
Look
at the guests! Half of 'em are wearing crowns—they're all dooks and duchesses and noblenesses."

It was true that the guests were all magnificently dressed—the ladies in flashing tiaras, or feather headdresses, in crinolines with spangles and precious stones at every seam; while the men were almost as dazzling, in satin knee breeches, with jeweled military orders pinned on their jackets, gold epaulets on their shoulders, rings on their fingers, and diamonds on their shoe buckles.

"His nabs certainly do know all of the top nobs," said Dido, impressed.

"They come because of my music," said Mr. Twite with certainty.

He flipped a white-and-gold program out of the gilt basket of a passing page boy and showed Dido its contents:

His Excellency the Margrave of Nordmarck,
Landgraf of Bad Wald
Plenipotentiary in Ordinary from the Court of Hanover
to His Majesty King Richard IV of England
Presents
An evening of Healing and Harmony
with the Eisengrim Household Players
conducted by
Herr Boris von Bredalbane

Program:
A Suite of Tea Music. B. Bredalbane
Eisengrim Concerto no. 1 B. Bredalbane
Eisengrim Concerto no. 2 B. Bredalbane

"Coo! Pa, what a lot of your music. Is that really what they've come for?"

"Of course. And to observe a demonstration of its healing power. But that is neither here nor there—Now I must wait no longer—be a good child—behave yourself—"

Dido saw that she would get no help or advice from her father as to how she should conduct herself. In fact, he left her without more ado and made his way to the platform, where he conferred with the members of his group.

Glancing warily around her, Dido was pleased to see the redheaded page whose birthday was July the fourth. He, too, carried a basket of programs, which he was offering to new arrivals.

"Hey, cully, gimme that basket—be a pal," muttered Dido in his ear. "Remember me—March the first? I feel like a busted backstay without summat to do..."

He grinned, passed her his basket, and went off to collect a tray of brimming wineglasses from the buffet that ran along the side of the room.

Strolling among the guests, proffering her programs,
Dido felt much more comfortable and was able to pick up a number of comments from the elegant guests.

"They say this musical feller what's-his-name—Bredalbane—is really something quite out of the common..."

"I prefer a good military march myself..."

"But does his music really have the power of healing?"

"Ha, ha! So Eisengrim asserts, but for my part I take that with a pinch of salt!"

"Poor Eisengrim! I see that, despite all his lures, the king has not come to his party."

"No, and I hear the margrave's monstrous put about at such a snub—face as long as a fiddle."

"As long as a viola da gamba."

"Oh, ha ha ha! Begad! Your grace has such a wit!"

"Poor Eisengrim! They say that since Prince George of Hanover died, he has been trying in every way to win King Richard's favor—with very small success."

"He certainly sets a lavish table—"

Dido noticed that the other pages, having supplied every guest with a program, were now carrying round trays of refreshments—bowls piled with gleaming caviar, lobster patties, crystallized grapes, ices—besides all kinds of delicacies she had never seen before; besides oceans of champagne in sparkling myriads of glasses. Maybe the people come for the nosh, not Pa's music, Dido thought; but no, they probably get just as good at home.

Following the example of the pages, Dido went to the buffet for a tray of glasses, wondering a little anxiously if
she would be spotted as an intruder; but it seemed that extra staff must have been taken on for the occasion; nobody gave her a second look. Behind the buffet, busy opening bottles of wine, she noticed a couple of the black-leather-coated boys whom she had last seen bullying half crowns and half sovereigns out of the poor traders in Wapping High Street. Now they were dressed up stiff and grand in white wigs and gold-laced white uniforms.

It sure is handy to be small and nohow-looking, thought Dido, receiving a tray from one of these, whose glance passed over her indifferently. Wouldn't it be a joke if I saw somebody I knew among the guests—Simon or Sophie maybe? Gliding about like a small black ghost in her page's uniform, she listened and watched, offered food and drink, ice creams and sorbets, tea and coffee, for upward of an hour. Then the service of refreshments came to a stop, the guests began to settle themselves on the gilded chairs, and the musicians to tune their instruments more loudly as a hint that they would shortly begin playing.