Greygallows (4 page)

'No?' My aunt shot me a keen glance. 'He gawked at you like a lovesick calf. Of course he knows you have ten—'

'No,' I said sharply. I don't know why the implications angered me so; imperceptibly I had come to accept my aunt's tacit assumption that my fortune was the only thing that would attract a man to me. But in this case ... I tried to master my annoyance. I was learning the necessity for concealment, and my aunt was watching me keenly.

'You were attracted by him?' she asked softly.

'Oh, desperately. You know how I adore bony young men with bad manners. Don't you think he would make a pretty sort of husband?'

'Your jokes are in poor taste,' my aunt grumbled; she was clearly relieved by my contemptuous tone. 'His family is good enough, I admit, but there is no money at all. His father was an improvident wretch, who left his mother penniless; were it not for Mr. Beam's charity, in taking on the son without the usual fees, he would have no chance for advancement.
He will only be a solicitor, after all; hardly a fit mate for
ten
thousand—'

'I may expect a lord, no less,' I snapped. 'What is the price in today's market for a title, Aunt?'

'That need not concern you. And for the love of heaven, don't speak so immodestly when we are in company. You shall have as good a husband as I can find for you.'

'Delightful,' I muttered; then, as my aunt's face settled back into its smug lines, I asked curiously,

'Were you able to persuade Mr. Beam to advance more money? I don't understand how it is paid. Is there a fixed allowance, or does he—'

'Good heavens,' my aunt said, in honest surprise. 'What has gotten into you today, to ask such absurd questions? It is really none of your concern. Oh, I almost forgot; we must stop by the dressmaker's. Lady Arbuthnot's ball is on Friday and your gown is not ready.'

She leaned forward and gave directions to the coachman. But even the thought of my new gown, which was of pale-blue satin trimmed with rosebuds of pink silk, did not rouse me from an odd discontent. Mr. Jonathan's rough words had found a crevice in my mind and lodged there. Was it really so absurd that I should want to have some decision in how I spent my money, and my life?

In the growing activity of the season I forgot that brief doubt. Ball followed ball, and the days were filled with calls, dinner parties, and drives. Our lives fell into a pattern; normally I slept late, after the fatigue of evening parties, and had a languid breakfast in bed. My aunt and I entertained for dinner, or went out, almost every day.

On the days when we had no engagements I remedied the flaws in my education. My aunt had
reviewed my accomplishments and declared herself satisfied with almost all. I knew enough Italian and German to translate the little songs I sang, and my drawings and needlework were good enough to display to the uncritical gentlemen who nightly filled our drawing room. But my music! That, according to my aunt, was an essential accomplishment. How else was the company to be entertained but by the performances, on pianoforte and harp, of the unmarried girls in the group? I had my little repertoire of songs for the pianoforte, and sang them in a pleasant enough voice, but my aunt was sadly disappointed by my performance on the harp. As she remarked, the harp was such a splendid thing for showing off graceful arms and soft white hands; the piano was nothing to it. I must have more lessons, and at once, so that I could use the great gilded instrument she had rented—at enormous cost, as she frequently reminded me—which occupied a prominent position by the long windows in the drawing room. Against the heavy crimson velvet drapes, my white hands and light gowns would look elegant as I bent gracefully over the string.

That was how I met Ferdinand.

He said his name was really Fernando, but he did not look at all Italian. He reminded me of the Prince, with his dainty moustaches. I fancied he had the same handsome mouth as his Highness. He was not so tall, but he was divinely slim and graceful.

I told him, naively, that I thought all Italians were dark and swarthy. He explained that he came from the north of Italy, where many people were as fair as he. From the first we found it easy to talk
together; only too easy. It must be confessed that my skill with the harp did not improve as rapidly as my aunt desired. How could I concentrate on notes and scales with Fernando's fingers brushing over mine as he bent over me to correct my touch?

I did not see him often; our lives were too busy. As November wore on, we began to prepare for the greatest social event of the season. With great difficulty and slyness my aunt had managed to get an invitation to a ball at the palatial home of Lady S—, one of London's noblest ladies and most distinguished hostesses. The invitations were prominently displayed, and my aunt went daily to rearrange the card tray to make sure they were visible.

My gown was new, and so lovely I didn't mind the tedious hours of fitting necessary. It was of rose-colored silk, lavish with lace and cut daringly low to display my shoulders and a good deal of my bosom. I could hardly wait to wear it.

Two days before the ball my aunt called me into her room. That morning, contrary to her usual custom, she ordered the curtains to be opened, and as the bleak winter sunshine shone into the room I thought she looked like a frog that had been too long under a stone, with her protuberant eyes and yellow, pouchy face.

Her expression, as she studied me, was critical.

'Good Lord, girl, you look like a fish. I thought last evening that you were pale. This will never do. A certain degree of languor is not unbecoming, but with her Majesty getting plumper and pinker every week, pallor is not in fashion. How long has it been since you went out?'

'Why, only yesterday, Aunt. We called on Mrs.
Sherbourne, and left cards with—'

'Yes, yes, I recall. They say a good brisk canter in the park is good for the complexion, but I have never favored these modern notions about fresh air. In any case, it is too late for such remedies. A little paint will do as well. But, however, it will not hurt you to take more air. Mr. Pomeroy has asked us to go driving this afternoon.'

'I have a lesson.'

'The harp can wait.'

'I detest Mr. Pomeroy,' I grumbled.

Actually I had nothing against that unfortunate young man except that his face and figure showed the effects of too many sweets. He was inordinately fond of bonbons, and brought us a box whenever he came. The fact that he ate most of them himself did not annoy me; he was so tongue-tied in my presence that he had to do something with his mouth to conceal the fact that he had nothing to say.

'You had better not detest him,' said my aunt. 'He is an only son, and his father is sure to be knighted one day.'

'The fact that he has no conversation and no wit and altogether too much figure has no bearing on the case?'

'None at all. Do you prefer Sir Richard?'

'Oh, Aunt, he is at least sixty! And I know he pads his calves. Why will he not wear pantaloons, like the other gentlemen?'

'He had a fine figure in his youth,' said my aunt, with a malicious grin. 'His legs were much admired.'

'At least he is more interesting than Mr. Fox,' I admitted. 'When
he
calls he will not sit for fear of
spoiling the fit of his trousers, and he does nothing but suck on the head of his cane.'

'Mr. Fox has four thousand—'

'Ginger hair and no chin,' I interrupted. 'Why should I care how much money he has? As you tell me so often, I have enough for two.'

'Well, well,' said my aunt, with unusual tolerance—she had just taken her first cup of chocolate. 'We need not decide just yet. The year has barely begun. I have great hopes for the ball this week. Your gown...'

The conversation passed on to matters pertaining to the ball. I knew my music lesson was lost for that day; I knew, also, that it caused me a pang quite incommensurate with my love of music.

The drive was pleasant, after all. I wore my new pelisse trimmed with ermine, and Mr. Pomeroy was moved by it to a flight of poetic fancy that quite amazed both of us. He informed me that I looked like a flower in the snow. The compliment pleased him so much he repeated it every half hour. But however, despite my aunt's disdain for fresh air, the cold bright weather refreshed me. I had not realized how tired I was of stale air and late nights.

In one of the narrow back streets we passed a dancing bear being led along on a chain by a swarthy man in ragged clothing. Mr. Pomeroy ordered the chaise stopped at once, and commanded the man to make the bear perform. The dark, dirty rascal was all flashing white teeth; he expected, and received, a sizable tip. The bear was a great shabby brown beast, and it was comical to watch it lumber about in a poor imitation of dancing. Its owner kept jerking at its collar, which
would set it off balance, and my aunt burst into laughter to see its clumsy attempts to keep its feet.

For some reason I did not enjoy the performance as I should have done. I had seen the brute's eyes as it stumbled. I knew it was only a dumb beast, without feelings; as Mr. Pomeroy said, it probably quite enjoyed being made to perform. But something in that look, from eyes as dull as unpolished pebbles, made me uncomfortable.

I dreamed of the bear that night, and woke feeling quite low. I could not recall exactly what I had dreamed. The chain, and certain rough, bare patches in the bear's dry fur were part of it, though, and then there was something about a chain on
my
neck. I made myself forget it; the ball was only a day away. So it was a surprise to me when, in the course of my music lesson that afternoon, I suddenly burst into tears.

Ferdinand went pale. His long white hands fluttered like birds, not daring to touch, but hovering all about me. Misunderstanding my distress, he thought he had said something to offend me; and as my tears subsided a trifle, I recalled enough of my feeble Italian to realize that his attempts at consolation were too warm for propriety.

'Cara
...
mio tesoro
...
bellissima.
..'

I straightened. I had flung myself picturesquely across the harp, and although it was a pretty pose, the frame made an uncomfortable dent in my body.

'Don't distress yourself,' I said, sniffing. 'You did nothing. I don't know why—I think it was seeing that nasty animal.'

I told him about the bear. I didn't think it was the cause of my tears, but I had to say something to relieve his anxieties. As he listened, his blue eyes flooded with tears. He was a very emotional man.

'You are all heart,' he exclaimed, 'all tenderness. To subject you to such a sight! Ah, these cold calloused Englishmen, they do not understand such a heart as yours. Do not weep'—for his sympathy had brought me a fresh flood of tears—'ah, do not weep,
carissima.
I cannot bear your tears...'

We were both weeping, copiously, so his admonition went disregarded. Our overflowing eyes met; I saw him through a watery blur, and something very strange happened inside me. Slowly I rose to my feet; slowly his slim white hands reached out. In the next moment we were in each other's arms.

It was the first time a man had held me close. My knees grew weak. I had never imagined it would be so pleasurable. I clung to him...

In the hallway beyond the closed doors of the drawing room, a servant dropped a tray. We sprang apart as though pushed by unseen hands. Shaken now by a storm of vastly different emotion, I stared wildly. My handsome Ferdinand dropped to his knees.

'Oh get up, I beg you,' I exclaimed, in an agony of apprehension. 'What if someone should come!'

Ferdinand got to his feet. Giving me a look of wild despair, he flung himself across the pianoforte, his face hidden in his arms. From between the black coat sleeves a voice, muffled by emotion and broadcloth, exclaimed,

'Ah, what have I done? To dare to touch...'

He stood upright, a frozen statue of despair. 'I will destroy myself!'

His tears made his eyes look bigger and bluer; he was one of those fortunate people who can weep without leaving any disfiguring swelling or redness. I knew from past experience that I was not so fortunate, and I was suddenly conscious of my swollen eyes. That awareness, and another sound from the hall, destroyed every emotion except consternation.

'Please,' I stuttered. 'Don't talk so. Think of me!'

'Ah!' Ferdinand drew himself up to his full height and clutched his bosom. He looked so handsome. 'I think of nothing else! That is my
tragedy, my despair___But I must be strong. I
must live and endure this agony. And you—you would grieve, just a little, for the poor music master, you who shed your lovely tears for a poor dumb beast?'

'Oh,' I breathed rapturously. It was just like a scene in a novel, I thought—one of those books from the lending library my aunt had forbidden me to read, but into which I had, of course, dipped, since she left them lying all about the house.

Ferdinand struck another pose, more graceful than the last.

'I go,' he said deeply. 'There are limits to my strength. I can endure no more. My adored one—farewell!'

He strode to the door. His hand on the knob, he turned. He gave me one long, burning look, a sob shook his frame, and he was gone.