Lady John (4 page)

“Good God, Kit’s dragged them from Dover in two days!” the
Duchess exclaimed vexedly, peering from a forward window in her sitting room. “They
must be exhausted, and fuming at the inconsiderateness of all Temperers! Well,
Apperset, don’t stand there!” she admonished the footman at her elbow. “See
they are fetched into the sunroom and given tea. I shall join them straightway.
Fan, dear,” she summoned Miss Weedwright, who stood eagerly at her left hand. “Help
me up; I must get rid of this corset: it maintains a stylish sort of figure, I
admit, but I vow I cannot move in the wretched thing.”

With some assistance from her companion the Duchess made her
way down to the sunroom, a cheerful little chamber on the first floor that
faced one of the autumn gardens. Seated there she found her daughter-at-law and
an older woman. Even dressed in mourning the girl was, Judith Tylmath was
elated to see, just as Kit had described her: a first-rater, not in the common
style but very lovely. The Duchess’s spirits began to climb.

“My dearest child, you cannot possibly be my poor John’s
wife? You look hardly out of the schoolroom!” Advancing into the room with both
arms extended, she drew Olivia to her and embraced her warmly.

“Your Grace, I am so pleased to meet you at last,” Olivia
answered with returned warmth, upon her release. “May I make my mother known to
you? Mrs. Martingale, your Grace.” The older women exchanged bows and smiles. “And,
before anything, we must both thank you for sending Lord Christopher for us;
that was an act of thoughtfulness which meant the difference between a
comfortable journey and a nightmare of awkwardness.”

“He dragged you across the country, I suspect, but it is
kind in you to spare a mother’s feelings, child. Please, now. Sit and drink
your tea; I am persuaded you must be much in need of it.”

“Tea is very welcome,” Mrs. Martingale agreed. “But as for
Lord Kit, I think you do the boy an injustice. He took every care for our
comfort, your Grace, although I admit that he does travel at a great pace!”

For some minutes the three women exchanged those
commonplaces available to three strangers who meet as family, speaking
generally of the journey, the state of Brussels at their departure, and of the
size and grandeur of Catenhaugh.

“We will have many long cozes, my dear,” the Duchess patted
Olivia’s hand briskly. “But for now, I am convinced that you must wish to
retire to your rooms to refresh yourselves, perhaps to sleep for a bit. We keep
country hours at Catenhaugh; a maid will bring you a can of hot water at
half-past five; the dressing bell rings at quarter to six. And by all means ask
someone to direct you to the drawing room, where we all meet for dinner. This
is a puzzle of a house if you are new to it!”

Olivia and her mother rose at once. The Duchess, making
ready to rise herself, cast a look at Mrs. Martingale’s trim figure and waved
away Miss Weedwright’s assistance. “Well,” she puffed brightly when she had
arrived upon her feet. “I shall see you at dinner, then. We dine
en famille
this evening.” The Duchess smiled
again and offered her hand to Olivia. “I am truly happy that you have come.”
With which she glided from the room like a heavily laden barge.

“Come along, Mamma; we must recruit our forces,” Olivia said.

“Livvy, dearest, shall you like your new family?”

“I plan to do, Mamma. I think, in any case, that the Duchess
and I shall deal comfortably together. How can I dislike her when she is so
good to us?” Lady John took her mother’s arm and they followed in the wake of a
housemaid who had appeared to show them to their rooms.
“En famille:
I daresay we had best prepare to
dine with a dozen people at least.”

“Do you think?” Mrs. Martingale inquired sleepily. “Gracious,
I seem to be tired!”

Somewhat to her own surprise Olivia, shown to an apartment
where her abigail was already occupied in unpacking her clothes, found that she
was fatigued too. Gratefully she allowed Bliss to remove her traveling dress
and drape her with a quilt. Catenhaugh, she reflected drowsily, was by far the
most luxurious residence in which she had dwelt, but it was also one of the
most drafty.

True to the Duchess’s word, hot water appeared in the guest
apartments at half-past five, and Olivia began her toilette shortly afterward.
At five minutes before six she, with Mrs. Martingale, was left at the door of
the drawing room by Apperset, who had been instructed to watch for the ladies
and direct them. Both had taken some pains with their appearance: Olivia wore
half-mourning of lavender silk, decorated with deep ruching at the hem and
twisted puffs of jet
velours coupe
at the
sleeves; Mrs. Martingale was handsome in deep blue jaconet and gray spider
gauze, with a widow’s cap of Brussels lace on her fair hair.

“Are we truly ready, Mamma?” Olivia quizzed, reaching to
straighten a ruffle on her mother’s cap. “I suspicion that we are to be passed
upon,” she added irrepressibly, and opened the door.

Her estimate of the party’s number was only wrong by two:
aside from the Duchess and her self-effacing companion there were eight others
in the room, and during the flurry of introductions Olivia made a push to sort
them out to her own satisfaction. There were the Ladies Susannah, Katherine,
and Bette, all three of John Temperer’s sisters; the husbands of the two older
sisters, Lord Reeve and Sir David Oningham; an elderly gentleman oddly dressed
in a full-skirted coat and velvet breeches who carried an ear trumpet and was
introduced as Lord David Temperer, the Duchess’s brother-at-law; Lord
Christopher, smiling encouragingly across the room; and finally, his Grace the
Duke of Tylmath.

His Grace was a tall, narrow man with a beaky, bony face and
an expression of severest disdain, who made it obvious from the start that he
was not disposed to like his brother’s widow. At their introduction he nodded
very coolly, raised his quizzing glass to one eye and observed her as if she
were a particularly uninteresting specimen of plant life. There was a muttered
something which might have been “how d’ye do,” and a strange pleating of his
upper lip which might have been a smile. Olivia, determined not to be put out
by this poor behavior, smiled as sweetly as she could at the Duke, and passed
on to his sisters with well-hidden relief.

His Grace’s reaction to Mrs. Martingale, on the other hand,
was anything but indifferent. The quizzing glass, raised at the ready to
depress pretension, dropped suddenly; a high, rosy color mounted to the Duke’s
cheeks and his eyes bulged slightly at the sight of his guest’s fair curls,
sweet expression, and her trim, but matronly figure.

Lady Susannah, watching this performance, murmured low to
her Mamma that she feared Julian was infatuated again, and that she hoped the
tendre
would not distress poor Mrs. Martingale.
The Duchess looked pained and continued her introductions.

“But my dear madam,” Tylmath was murmuring possessively to
Mrs. Martingale. “May I not offer you a chair? And welcome you, of course, to
Catenhaugh.” Mrs. Martingale had prepared herself to dislike Tylmath, not the
least for his cavalier treatment of her daughter; she was totally taken aback
by the Duke’s attentive murmur in her ear, and cast a look of panic at her
daughter.

“I hope your Mamma shall not dislike it very much,” Lady
Bette whispered to Olivia at their introduction. “I fear Julian has taken a
fancy to her.”

It took Olivia some moments to comprehend exactly what was
meant. Then, “to Mamma?” She gaped unbelievingly. “I know she is a pretty woman
for her age, and I have often wondered if she might not like to marry again.
But John’s
brother?”

Lady Bette nodded her stylishly cropped brown head. “I’m
afraid that Julian does rather tend to develop these infatuations for ladies of—well,
mature years. He’ll make a fool of himself, probably, which is mortifying for
all of us but nothing we are not accustomed to. I only hope he will not give
you a dislike of all of us on his account.” She smiled shyly. “Julian’s really
the only unbearable one here. There’s Sophy, but she is happily in Somerset
with her children, who have the most providential mumps! You see, Sophy and
Julian are Melverings; they take after Papa’s mother. Kit and Kate and I take
after our papa. And William, who you shan’t meet until he comes home at
Christmas, and Susannah, and poor Anne and John, they take after Mamma.”

“I see,” Olivia answered civilly, hoping that in time she
would.

“I know it must be dreadful confusing for you. Mamma wanted
to keep the party small, a-purpose not to terrify you at once, but Susannah and
Kate
would
come to meet you the first
night. They will take their husbands away in a day or so and we can begin to
plan our Season. It will be only you and me and Mamma and your mamma then. And
you have no idea how many pleasant things we are planning—it will be such fun
to make our come-out together.”

“Together?” Olivia repeated. At which interesting moment
dinner was announced, and Lord Christopher presented himself as an escort to
the dining room.

“We’re short of gentlemen tonight, ladies. I hope you will
not mind my offices?”

“What an unfair thing to ask Olivia—may I call you Olivia?
After all, we’re sisters now. But you know that the merest civility requires
her to say something charming about you.”

“I mean, brat, to take you in to dinner,” Lord Kit replied,
unruffled. “Unless, of course, you had rather take your dinner in the
schoolroom. Standing.” With which dire offer he took Olivia’s arm.

“
I
don’t intend to run
such a risk. Thank you, sir,” Olivia said mildly, folding her hand on his arm.

“There, you see. Olivia knows just how to answer you, Kit.
Of all the toplofty—”

“Toplofty? Why, you little
gabblemonger—”

Fortunately they had fetched up in that moment at the table,
and the two affectionately sparring Tenderers were separated. The Duke, with
Mrs. Martingale uncomfortably at his side, was about to offer the blessing. Kit
wagged an eyebrow at Bette but said nothing; whatever her further remarks might
have been were cut short by Tylmath’s stentorian tones.

“He must be trying to make a good impression upon your
mamma!” Bette whispered to Olivia. “See what a job he is making of it!”

Olivia was less surprised by Tylmath’s impassioned recitation
of the Lord’s Prayer than she was by his assiduous attention to her mother.
Knowing the battle which Mrs. Martingale continually fought to keep from
growing plump, Olivia was amused to see Tylmath press her to sample the
semelles
of carp, the french-dressed capon, the
legumes
and the variety of removes which were
available. Mrs. Martingale, in return, valiantly refused all but a slice of
veal roast, a taste of cucumbers
en salade,
and,
as a concession to the party, one of the prettily wrought meringue cups. The
Duchess, who also observed Mrs. Martingale’s sparing meal, leaned over Lord Kit
to inform Olivia that her mother must be a trifle ill. The Duchess obviously
enjoyed her dinner, pausing between bites to prompt her younger son with
questions for Olivia.

“Do you know, Mamma, I think it would be a great deal simpler
if I were to exchange my place with Olivia so that you could interrogate her at
your leisure.”

“Doubtless, my dear,” the Duchess agreed. “However, that
would mean your sitting next to Reeve, and the last time that came about the
two of you got so carried away in arguing about one of your dreadful horses
that you left table in the middle of the second course and made for the stables
to settle the matter.” From a tray of ratafia creams the Duchess picked
several, assuring her son that even her curiosity would wait. “And from where I
sit I can, I hope, protect poor Mrs. Martingale from the worst of Tylmath’s
wretched gallantries. I do beg your pardon, my dear: I had no idea Julian would
make a cake of himself in this fashion.”

“I assure you, your Grace, that Mamma is likely so baffled
by his attentions that she cannot think of taking offense. Since my father died
she has begun to think of herself as very near the grave; this must be vastly
amazing to her.”

“I only hope she will not blame me for Julian’s want of
manner. The boy is purest Melvering, and there is nothing to be done for it.”

“So Lady Bette has informed me, ma’am,” Olivia replied
unevenly. She was violently repressing the urge to laugh at the entire party.

“I assure you, I was never more surprised in my life than to
find that I had a Melvering baby; I had hoped when I married Tylmath—Julian’s
father, that is—that the strain would not show up at all. But I did try to make
the best of it.”

“I see,” Olivia said carefully. Lord Kit met her eyes and
very nearly caused her precarious sobriety to crumble. “I am informed that John
took after you, ma’am.”

“O yes, John was a Penmire, like me. I shall not have a
moment to quiz you tonight as I should like to do, but I hope another time you
will humor an old woman and talk to me of my son. I confess I am surprised at
his remarkably good judgment when picking a wife! I was always terrified that
he would disclose some horrid secret marriage to us; a chorus girl or opera
dancer.” Choosing another ratafia cream carefully, the Duchess felt, rather
than saw, Olivia’s gaze of amazement. Then, as both Lord Christopher and Lady
John burst into chuckles, the Duchess said irritably, “No, I had not ought to
have said it that way. Well, girl, you must forgive me: we Penmires are as
outrageous as the Melverings in our way.”

“There is nothing to forgive, ma’am,” Olivia assured her
when her breath was somewhat recovered. “John told me you were a Trojan, and I
can see now he was right.”

“Did he?”

“O, yes. And while he did not call his Grace a
Melvering,
he did refer to him as a
spindle-legged gabster with the wind up, which is why I find it so hard to keep
from strong hysterics when I see him paying court to Mamma!”