Evelyn Richardson (21 page)

Despite his hasty pace. Lord Mainwaring could catch no sight of Frances as he headed angrily back through the park in the direction of Mainwaring House. The disagreeableness of Vanessa's reflections was nothing compared to the turmoil of emotions besieging the marquess. The foremost was anger-anger at himself for allowing her to entrap him as she had that morning, for not rescuing Frances from an unpleasant situation even before Vanessa's insulting remarks, for not retrieving the situation after those remarks. There was blind fury at Vanessa for reading more into his relationship with her than there was, for putting him in such an impossible situation, and for behaving with such gratuitous cruelty. Anger was his instant reaction, but it was followed by a stronger, more complicated sense of unhappiness. The impression that remained with him the longest and the most bitterly was the shock and betrayal he had read in Frances' eyes. It had been almost immediately replaced by the anger that produced her effective reply, but for a brief moment her eyes had revealed the hurt of a loyal pet whose master has turned on it without cause or warning. Julian was tortured with remorse for being the unwitting instrument of such pain, and he wished with all his heart that he could have taken her in his arms then and there and kissed it gently and reassuringly away. And last of all, he was cynically grateful to Vanessa for having shown him at the same time how little he cared for her and how much he valued the friendship and good opinion of Lady Frances Cresswell.

By the time he arrived back at Grosvenor Square, the anger had burnt itself out, leaving him subdued, but with a corroding sense of loss and disillusionment. Kilson was totally mystified. “I ain't never seen himself look like that before in all the years I have been with his lordship,” he confided later to Alice as he tried to fathom the cause. He nodded sagely. “If you ask me, this bears some watching.”

Chapter Twenty-two

“But, Fanny,” protested Cassie, struggling to keep pace with her sister's angry stride, “I thought this was supposed to be a restful outing.”

“It was,” Frances snapped, slackening her pace somewhat. The twins exchanged puzzled glances and hurried along, eager to reach the privacy of the schoolroom, where they could son out this unusual show of temper.

After bidding a hasty good-bye to Ned, they raced upstairs. “What do you think, Freddie?” his sister demanded. “I just asked her a question and she snapped my head off.”

He considered a moment. “I'm not sure, but I think it had to do with Lord Mainwaring's being a friend of that lady. P'raps Fanny thought if he was a friend of that lady's he wouldn't be her friend. And I must say, I don't blame her. I wouldn't like a special friend of mine to be friendly with someone like that. You want to watch out for people like her,'' he confided darkly. “She has mean eyes. I think she's a bad 'un. We'd better warn Fan to keep a weather eye out for her.”

“She doesn't seem to like Fan much either, though 1 can't think why,” observed Cassie. “I wish there were some way we could keep that lady away from his lordship. Maybe we could ask Neddie to keep an eye out, and if she shows up at Mainwaring House, he could discourage her,” she added, warming to the plan.

“Nah,” scoffed her twin. “Don't be a bacon-brain. Ladies don't call on gentlemen.”

“Much you know,” she retorted. “Ladies that wear dresses like that do!”

This unexpectedly superior worldly knowledge awed Freddie into silence, but his busy brain was scheming ways to keep his friend the marquess out of the clutches of someone who was so clearly a bad 'un.

Meanwhile, Higgins had stopped Frances in the midst other angry flight. “The Comte de Vaudron is in the front parlour, my lady.”

“Thank you, Higgins,” she managed as she stomped upstairs in a most unladylike fashion. Actually, the comte was just the person she needed at this particular moment. A combination of the sophisticated man-of-the-world and paternal adviser to her and the twins, he would be able to offer her the exact amount of wisdom and sympathy that the situation warranted.

“My chère Fanny,” he exclaimed, rising to bow gracefully over her hand. His quick glance apprehended the state of affairs and he drew her to the couch, inquiring gently, “Mais, ma petite, what has put you in such a pucker? A young lady moving in the highest circles in the ton should be aux anges instead of wearing a face like a thundercloud.”

The sympathetic look and calmly supportive manner almost overset her, and she wished with all her heart that she could climb into his lap and burst into tears, as she had so many years ago in Greece when her pet bird had flown away. “It is nothing, really, monsieur.” She pushed aside a stray lock of hair, grimacing at her overwrought state.

“ 'Uncle Maurice,' please. And I know you. Fanny. You are of such good sense that you do not fly into a pelter over nothing. Come, tell me about it.”

And as she had done so many times before, she found herself confiding in him. He sat silent during the entire recital, raising a speculative eyebrow here and there, but otherwise making no comment. When she had finished, he stared thoughtfully into space for some time, wondering exactly how conversant Frances was with his lordship's amorous affairs.

She broke in on his thoughts. “Am I that much of a quiz, then? Is that truly what they say of me?”

He snorted. “They don't say anything at all about you, my dear.”

“But,” she pursued, “am I so dowdy, then?”

“You are always très elegante, ma chère,” he replied slowly. Then, recognizing the seriousness of her concern, he added, “But un peu sèvére, n'est-ce pas?” He hastened to reassure her, “But, my child, with all you have to think about, how could you be anything else?”

“It isn't fair,” she protested. “Why is it that women of lively intelligence and high values are labeled prudes, while someone such as Lady Welford, with only her beauty to recommend her, wins admiration and attention?”

The picture suddenly became abundantly clear to the comte, but he managed to phrase his answer in the same vague generalities used by Frances. “I can see that for all your intelligence, you are not very clever about people, mon enfant, and about les hommes du monde in particular. Everyone wants to enjoy himself. No one wishes to worry, to think seriously and question deeply. Thus they are attracted to those who make them enjoy life, make them forget any cares or responsibilities. Now, someone such as Lady Welford devotes all other energies to making people, men in particular, do just that. She makes them forget anything except how beautiful she is and how important she makes them feel, and the pleasure she can bring them. Ah ...” He held up an admonishing hand. “I know that you will say this is hypocritical, and you would be entirely correct. But there are other people who enjoy life in a less-cynical and manipulative manner. They delight in life, relishing everything from playing with their children, to attending concerts of ancient music, to giving balls and parties, to gardening, and they are loved and enjoyed wherever they are, whether or not they are beautiful or fashionable. Your Lady Streatham is such a one who has this joie de vivre, non? And there are others who cultivate this most supreme of all social talents. I know you scorn those who live in the lives of social butterflies, but you must look upon the ton in the civilized way we French do. To us, this social intercourse is an art to be cultivated, as much as proficiency at watercolors or the pianoforte. To dress oneself beautifully, to bring wit and intelligence to conversation, is to bring pleasure to other people. Just because one is a skilled conversationalist does not mean that one must confine one's conversation to superficialities. And selecting clothes that are exquisite or hair style dressings that are appropriate, particularly to oneself, are as much expressions of one's personality and aesthetic philosophy as collecting Dutch masters or antiquities.'' He could see she was much struck, and pressed his point home. “And this is not self-indulgent or frivolous. Quite the contrary, it shows an awareness and a concern for the enjoyment of other people.”

Frances sat quietly, her brow wrinkled in thought. Unpleasant as it was to face, she admitted that she did allow herself to become immersed in the seriousness of her responsibilities, to the exclusion of enjoyment. To others she must seem dull and prudish. She raised troubled eyes. “And how would you have someone who knows nothing of this change?”

The count's eyes twinkled as he thought: I knew we should soon get around to this. But he kept these reflections to himself as he continued blandly, “I would first have that person go to a modiste of my acquaintance, who is exceptionally skilled at designing creations that are accurate reflections of the wearer's true personality. These modistes today, bah! They are clothes-mongers who pay no attention to the person they are dressing. They cover fat dowagers with ruchings and flounces. They overwhelm delicate ladies with bows and elaborate corsages. In short, they fit their patronesses to their fashions, instead of the way it should be. Once a woman is elegantly garbed in something that makes her feel beautiful, without changing her into a doll dressed up in what fashion dictates, then she is confident and relaxed enough to pay attention to others, to share her wit and conversation in a way that amuses.”

“Do you think your strategy would work for someone like me?” Frances asked shyly.

With just the correct mixture of surprise and interest he reassured her. “You, mon enfant? But it would be the most delightful thing! And certain to prove the efficacy of my system.” He held up an admonitory hand. “But even though you could be assured of success, I couldn't guarantee to make you into an incomparable or even a diamond ... at least not overnight. Even I don't dictate society's whims to that extent. But you don't want that, do you?” He asked this with deceptive innocence, having a very good idea of exactly what she did want.

The sparkle reappeared in Lady Frances' eyes. “That would be capital, monsieur. Thank you ever so much.”

“Mon enfant, we shall begin at once,” he began with Gallic enthusiasm. “But, please, no more, 'monsieur'— 'Uncle Maurice,' as I once was for you.”

Frances smiled. “Eh, bien, mon oncle. En avant.” If the energy and gaiety in her voice were a trifle forced, no one but an uncle, and one well-versed in the ways of the world at that, would have noticed this unnatural exuberance.

He gave a conspiratorial wink and replied, “We shall visit my friend immediately, as soon as you are ready.”

Frances dashed upstairs to assure herself that Cassie and Freddie were at their lessons, which, hearing her on the stairs, they were perusing diligently when she entered the schoolroom. “I am just going out with the Comte de Vaudron. You can finish that chapter on Caesar without me, but I shall ask you to tell me all about it when I return.”

The twins nodded and kept their expressions of earnest scholasticism until they heard the carriage roll away. “Now, where do you suppose Fan is going in such a hurry?” Freddie wondered.

“At least she no longer seems so angry,” his twin volunteered. “I hope she won't remain angry, because she's not nearly as good a friend when she is. Remember the last time she got really mad, I mean, really, really mad at Snythe? Why, she even snapped at Wellington and Aunt Harriet,” Cassie reminisced.

Meanwhile, Lady Frances and the Comte de Vaudron were en route to the establishment of the count's friend Madame Regnery. Modiste to many of France's most aristocratic families, Madame had discovered her name on the list of the enemies of new republic just in time to make a hairbreadth escape in a linen draper's cart. Since coming to England, she had worked long, arduous hours to establish herself. Forced to inhabit the smallest of shops on South Moulton Street, which, if not directly on fashionable Bond Street, was at least within hailing distance of this mecca of the haut monde, she had had a difficult time of it. Those of her former illustrious customers who had not succumbed to La Guillotine were in no circumstances to patronize her. The English, an unadventurous race altogether, lacked the imagination to try someone new. Moreover, they were naturally suspicious of a novelty that also happened to be French.

Thus, the sight of such an old and still solvent patron as the comte was a very welcome one indeed. Madame hastened to him, hands outstretched in greeting. “Monsieur le Comte! Il y a longtemps, n'est-ce pas? But,” she broke into prettily accented English, “I can see your companion is English. What may I do for you today?”

“Eh bien, Henriette, you may do nothing less man effect a transformation,” he replied, bending over one work-worn hand.

“A transformation? But of whom? Surely you don't mean of this young lady? But she is already so charming.”

Here Frances broke in. “Mais non, madame. I do not wish to be merely 'charmante.' That is what one says of someone neither pretty enough to be a diamond nor ugly enough to be an eccentric or an heiress. In short, it means one is mediocre or, at the very least, excessively dull. I no longer wish to be either.”

The count interrupted this impassioned diatribe, the bulk of whose significance was slightly lost on Madame. “What Mademoiselle would like to be is fashionable, à la mode, in a style that is particularly, her own.”

Comprehension dawned. “Ah, I understand,” Madame replied, wrinkling her brow speculatively. “It should not be so difficult. Mademoiselle est d'une taille elegante. She carries herself with style already. She does not need all those laces, flounces, ruchings, and ribbons with which these young ladies ornament and obscure themselves. Bah! Such stupidity! One looks very much like another, and they all resemble a milliner's window. Mademoiselle has intelligence, character, and, I think, a subtle charm which is enhanced by simple design, n'est-ce pas?” She cocked a birdlike head in Frances’ direction.

“I believe so, madame. At any rate, that is always what I have preferred,” Frances began timidly.

“Eh bien. Marthe, bring the gossamer silk at once,” demanded the little lady. “We begin with a ball dress because that is where one makes the greatest impression on the most people.”