Marchington Scandal (13 page)

“Eliza! You must save me,” she said.

Lady Burnham smiled. “Must I?”

“Yes, you do not know what the last quarter hour has been like.”

“Oh, I have a fair idea, Katharine. You know, when I urged you to come to my ball at the start of this season, I hadn't the least notion that you would set the
ton
on its ear when you
did
join its activities. I wonder if I would have insisted so if I had,” she added meditatively.

“I did no such thing,” retorted Katharine. “They set themselves on their ears; they like nothing better.” She looked around the room disgustedly. “They positively
search
for things to be scandalized over.”

“Well, of course they do, dear. They lack occupation. But there has to be
some
basis for their talk, you know.”

“They would be much better off helping you with your hospitals and orphans,” said Katharine.

“Undoubtedly. But they do not find them amusing, I fear. Really, Katharine, I do want to talk to you about this portrait scheme. It seems a bit unwise.”

“Why?”

“Well, to paint Stonenden, just as if you were an official portraitist—it will only increase the gossip.”

“It already
has
.” Katharine laughed shortly.

“Has? You mean you have begun already?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Lady Eliza sighed. “Well, I suppose it is no good arguing with you if you have actually started. I had hoped to persuade you not to do it.”

“But why?”

“Well, obviously, because it will keep this whole silly story alive so much the longer. I think it would be far better to let it drop. The
ton
would soon be onto something else, and it would be forgotten.”

“I shouldn't forget,” replied Katharine, her jaw firm.

“Is it so important to you, dear? Why?”

The girl raised her amber eyes and met her friend's squarely. “For two reasons, I think. First, of course, I resent being accused of pretending to paint, of hoaxing Sir Thomas Lawrence. I am proud of my painting. But more important, this article was so unfair, and in the most
sweeping
way. Winstead does not want any woman to have a chance. And only think, Eliza, there could be someone who paints much better than I who would never get anywhere because of him.”

Lady Burnham, who had been watching her closely, nodded. “Yes, I see. Well, you must do what you believe right. Though I must tell you, dear, that one person can do very little in this world. I have found that in my charity work. It is very frustrating.”

“But it is not an excuse for giving up.”

“No.” The older woman smiled. “Did I ever tell you, Katharine, what a sensation it caused when I took up my orphans?”

“No!” The girl smiled delightedly back. “Did it?”

“Society was appalled that I should wish to involve myself with lower-class brats. They are all accustomed to it now, of course. I am pointed out as a curiosity, nothing more.”

“You are no such thing,” laughed Katharine. “But thank you, Eliza.”

Lady Burnham nodded and looked about the room. “What a crush. I must go and speak to Mary. And there is Elinor. How is she?”

“Much better since I told her my scheme for making Tom jealous. She thinks it splendid.”

“Poor child. But is it working?”

“Not yet, apparently.” Both women looked across the room to where the Countess Standen was sitting, Tom Marchington in his usual position. As they watched, Lord Stonenden came up to the countess and bowed slightly, clearly asking her to dance. Tom eyed him with patent hostility.

Lady Burnham raised her eyebrows. “Well, that is certainly an unexpected sight. Oliver—”

“Yes, I know,” interrupted Katharine. “He very seldom dances. If you will excuse me, Eliza, I must speak to Mary about something.” And she strode off, her friend looking after her with mild surprise.

***

Later in the evening, as Katharine was walking across the room, she heard her name and turned to find Lord Stonenden approaching. “May I have the pleasure of this next set?” he asked. “It is a waltz, I believe.”

For some reason, Katharine found this unexceptionable request irritating. “I'm sorry,” she said, “I…I'm already engaged.” She had noticed Tony Tillston nearby, and now she beckoned him unobtrusively. “Tony, this is our dance, I think.”

Tony, showing only a brief flicker of surprise, came over and bowed slightly. “Of course.”

“I am sorry,” repeated Katharine, not sounding particularly so. Stonenden shrugged, and she and Tony walked out onto the floor.

After a moment, the music began, and they danced in silence for a while. Finally Tony said, “I'm quite a useful sort of chap, aren't I?”

“What? Oh, Tony, I am grateful. You took my hint splendidly.”

“Always at your service. Not that I get much chance these days. I have hardly seen you since I began bear-leading your cousin about town.”

“Tony!” Katharine repressed a smile.

“Not bear-leading, then, escorting.”

“Well, it is excessively kind of you to help,” responded the girl warmly. “I only wish I could be sure it was working.”

“Oh, I've seen Marchington glaring at me more than once.”

“Have you?”

“Yes. The thing is, he can't seem to decide whether to scowl at me or Stonenden. I'd say the race was about even just now.”

“Oh.”

Tony looked down at her. “I can't understand myself what Stonenden is at. You wouldn't have any notion, would you?”

“I? Of course not.”

“I thought you might. You and he are so thick these days, what with portraits and so on.”

“We are no such thing. We are the merest acquaintances.”

“Coming it too strong.”

“What do you mean? We are. Professional acquaintances. I am painting his portrait, nothing more.”

“Not on your side, perhaps. But a man like Stonenden don't offer himself up to the gossips in this way without some reason.”

Katharine frowned up at him. “I don't know what you mean. Lord Stonenden is only helping me prove Winstead wrong, and getting a first-rate portrait which he has wanted for some time.”

“Come, Katharine! What does he care for Winstead? And he might have any painter in England do his portrait.”

“Well, and if he might? Is it so astonishing that he should wish me to do it?”

“Yes, it is,” replied Tony bluntly. “And you would see it if you stopped to consider. I don't like the whole business, Katharine.”

“You are being ridiculous.” She stared out over his shoulder stonily.

Tony looked down at her, grinned, and shrugged. “I suppose I am. It is another thing I'm good at. Perhaps I'm simply angry that I did not think of offering to be painted.”

Katharine's expression softened, and she smiled. “What would you do with a portrait?”

“Oh, I don't know. Give it to my club, perhaps, for darts. But really, Katharine, you are determined to go on with this painting?”

“Absolutely. We began yesterday.”

“I heard. Well, I suppose there is nothing I can do about it. But do be careful, Katharine.”

She laughed. “You make it sound as if I were embarking upon some dangerous adventure, Tony.”

“I wouldn't go that far. Not dangerous. But—”

“Oh, do stop. Let us talk of something amusing, as we used to.”

Tony smiled wryly. “Alas, for the first time in my life, I am caught without an amusing anecdote.”

“Well, we shall simply dance, then.”

They did so, and when the set ended, Katharine sought out Mary to see if she was ready to go home. But before they could depart, Katharine was accosted by Lady Jersey, whom she had successfully evaded all evening.

“Not going, darling?” she said. “Why, I haven't even spoken to you!”

“Yes,” answered Katharine unencouragingly.

“But surely you can delay one little minute. I simply
must
ask you about your fascinating painting. I know you began yesterday.”

“Then you know everything.”

“Oh, my dear! Not at all.” Lady Jersey leaned closer. “Tell me, what is it like to spend a whole morning alone with Oliver Stonenden? Such an
attractive
man.”

“Not alone,” put in Mary Daltry firmly. “I sit with them, of course.”

“Oh.” Lady Jersey looked a bit disappointed, then rallied. “But still, it must be…ah, stimulating.” She eyed Katharine speculatively.

But Katharine disappointed her by laughing. “If you could see me covered with paint in my ragged old apron, I doubt you would say so, Lady Jersey.”

The other raised her eyebrows. “Indeed? Well, my dear, I can only say that if Oliver Stonenden had made such a gesture for
me
, I should take care to look ravishing when he came round.”

Katharine, furious, strove to control her temper. She knew that Lady Jersey was on the watch for any reaction, however tiny or unexpected. And she would twist it to fit her own quite mistaken idea. She met the other woman's eyes. “Perhaps you should take up painting, then, Lady Jersey,” she replied. “Now, we really must go. Please excuse us.” And she turned away without another word.

But Katharine found it difficult to forget her conversation with Lady Jersey, part of it an echo of what Tony had said. In fact, she had trouble falling asleep that night, pondering its implications. The more she considered the matter, the odder it seemed that Lord Stonenden should ask her to paint him. Her own astonishment from the night of the play, submerged until then in the excitement of actually painting, flooded back. She had never known Stonenden to exert himself for any other human being. Why, then, had he offered to help her confound Winstead without so much as thinking it over?

Katharine rejected the answer to this question that Tony and Lady Jersey had seemed to espouse. She had seen where Lord Stonenden's romantic interest lay. But why, then, had he done it? Katharine tossed and turned in her bed for an endless time without discovering any satisfactory answer, and only when she had resolved to ask the man at the first opportunity did she finally fall asleep.

This came the following morning. Stonenden arrived at eight, and Mary Daltry had gone downstairs to speak to the cook when he was brought in. Thus Katharine had a few minutes alone with him in the drawing room. She wasted no time, but as soon as they had exchanged good mornings, said, “Lord Stonenden, I have been wondering why you asked me to paint your portrait.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I thought that was obvious.”

Katharine shook her head, determined to give him no help.

“But we are proving, are we not, that you are a painter?”

“Why should you care about that?”

The man studied her a moment, his eyes unreadable. “I am interested in painting. And the things you showed Lawrence were good. Do you rate your ability so low that such an explanation is insufficient?”

This stopped Katharine briefly; then she said, “No. No, I rate my skill as it deserves, I hope. But you…” She hesitated again, then, summoning her courage, continued, “Frankly, Lord Stonenden, I know you are not a philanthropic man. I find it difficult to believe that you exposed yourself to the gossip of the ton merely because you are ‘interested' in art. I know you hate gossip; you have said so.”

“Indeed.” He looked a bit amused. “Why do you think I did it, then?” His dark blue eyes rested on her face expectantly.

Katharine was immediately very annoyed with herself for giving him this opening. The thing she had above all
not
wished to do was be forced to guess his motives. “I haven't the slightest notion,” she snapped.

“Oh, come. You must have some idea.”

She eyed him with loathing. Stonenden was always so sure of himself. “All right. I have two. Either you were amused by my pretensions and hoped to puncture them, or you thought to get a passable portrait for free. If it was the latter, I can assure you you made a mistake. I intend to charge a reasonable fee.”

Stonenden's brows came together, and he looked startled and angry at once. “Is this what you truly think, then?” he asked. “This is how you see me still?”

Though Katharine was a little daunted by his reaction, she met his eyes squarely. “What should I think?”

He held her gaze, his own eyes hard, until Katharine felt she could hardly breathe; then, abruptly, he laughed. “I shall certainly pay you for the portrait. I am not clutch-fisted, at any rate. But let us say I began this thing through misjudgment. I see my mistake now.”

Katharine found that she was for some reason very shaken. “You…you are withdrawing?”

“No indeed. I always perform what I promise. And I
do
want a portrait. Unless you wish to cry off? I take it this scene was due to the gossip about the portrait. Are you turning cow-hearted?”

“Of course not!”

“Good. We are agreed, then. It is a simple business transaction.”

Katharine agreed somewhat halfheartedly, and at that moment Mary came into the room, putting an end to the conversation.

The painting did not go particularly well that morning. Lord Stonenden was unusually silent, it seemed to Katharine, and instead of allowing her to concentrate more closely upon her work, this seemed to distract her. She twice painted over the beginnings of his face, and finally abandoned this difficult area and turned to the coat. At ten, she laid aside her brushes, saying, “I think that is all today.”

“I am quite able to go on,” replied Stonenden.

“Thank you. I am not.”

He shrugged, inquired whether he would be wanted tomorrow, and upon hearing that he would, nodded and took his leave. As the door closed behind him, Katharine dragged off her apron and threw it into the corner of the room, exclaiming, “Damn!”

“Katharine!”

“Oh, I'm sorry, Mary. But nothing is going right this morning.”

The other watched her for a moment. “Did you quarrel with Lord Stonenden?”

“Quarrel? What should we have to quarrel about? We haven't anything in common but this stupid portrait.” Her tone was so savage that Mary blinked. “I shouldn't dream of quarreling with a man I positively despise!” She began to put her painting tools away with hasty, violent movements.

Mary started to speak, then changed her mind. She began to gather up her sewing things. When she was ready to leave the room, she said, “You are always unhappy when your painting goes badly. Why not go for a walk in the park? You need to get out.”

“I mean to walk, though perhaps not in the park.”

“If you are going into the streets, you will take someone with you, Katharine?”

“Yes, yes. I'll take James. He keeps quiet.”

She nodded and turned to go out.

“Mary?”

“Yes, dear?”

“I didn't mean that the way it sounded.”

“I know, dear.”

“I'll see you this afternoon.”

Mary nodded again and went out.

***

Katharine took a long walk, so long that James, the footman, nearly protested. She went nowhere near the park, keeping to quiet residential streets and lanes, and when she finally looked around about one o'clock, she found herself near Westminster Abbey. She could just see the clock tower above a row of houses on her right. Smiling a little, she turned in that direction, and in a moment was standing before the great church, looking toward the Thames.

“Hadn't we better be getting home, miss?” asked James.

“In a little while. I am going into the abbey.”

“Yes, miss.” The footman's lack of enthusiasm was patent.

“You may wait out here. I shan't be long.”

“Yes, miss.”

She walked into the church through the great doors at the end and strolled slowly down its length. It was empty and quiet, and the sun threw bars of color from the stained glass across the flagged floor. Motes of dust danced in the beams. Katharine looked at the tombs of the kings and queens, which she remembered seeing many years ago when her mother brought her here. They still lay in neat effigy, hands clasped, crowns straight. She felt calmer after her walk, and she considered her situation dispassionately. This morning, she had nearly decided to give up the portrait and, in fact, go back to the way she had been living when she first came home. She had done all she could think of for Elinor, so that problem need no longer take her away from home. She could easily retreat into solitude and forget the excitements of the previous weeks.

But as she walked, Katharine had changed her mind. The portrait was a great challenge, and she would probably never get such a chance again. She couldn't throw it away. And as she considered further, she realized that she had enjoyed going out once or twice this season. Many times it was wearying, but not always. She would not give it up entirely again.

A sound from the doorway heralded another visitor, and Katharine slipped out of the abbey to return home. She had missed luncheon, but she felt much better, and she greeted Mary with a cheerfulness that made the older woman's expression lighten visibly.

The Daltrys spent a quiet afternoon. Katharine went up to work on the background of her painting, and Mary wrote letters in the drawing room. They had no engagement that evening and were looking forward to reading some new volumes from Hookham's after dinner. When the maid brought in the tea tray, Katharine came down, and the two sat together in perfect harmony across the low tea table.

“I was just writing Elinor's mother,” said Mary.

“Yes? What can you find to say to her? Is she very uneasy?”

“Well, she is not happy, of course. She wanted very much to come to town herself, though I believe Elinor asked her not to. But the younger boy is still ill, and she could not leave him.”

“That is George, is it not? He is very sickly.”

“Yes. Poor little thing.”

“Well, I think it may be best that she could not come. Indeed, I am glad now that I did not write Tom's father. He and Elinor must have this out themselves. Their parents cannot solve the problem for them.”

Mary looked over at her, smiling slightly.

Katharine laughed. “And no more can I. I don't think so, I promise you. I have done my utmost; now it is up to them.”

“I think it
is
, you know.”

“Absolutely.”

“I think…I hope it will all turn out well.”

Katharine nodded.

At this moment, the maid came in to announce a caller. But he had followed close on her heels and burst into the room even as the girl was saying, “Mr. Thomas Marchington has called, miss.”

“What the hell do you mean setting my wife against me?” bellowed Tom. The maid gaped at him as the two Daltrys stood.

“That will do, Phyllis,” said Katharine, and the maid scurried from the room. “Hello, Tom.”

“You won't put me off with your town airs, so you needn't try,” replied their visitor. “I'm sick of 'em, you understand.”

“Really, Thomas!” said Mary.

“I don't understand you at all,” answered Katharine. “But I am ready to do so if you will sit down and speak in a reasonable tone.” She sat herself and motioned for Mary to join her.

Tom clenched his fists and frowned; then a tremor went through him, and he sank down in an armchair across from them and put his head on his hands. He looked the picture of despair.

Katharine suppressed a smile. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“No!”

“Very well. Now, what is wrong? You know quite well that I did not set Elinor against you. If anyone has done that, it is you yourself. We have talked about this before.”

Recovering some of his belligerence, Tom said, “I suppose this Tillston fellow isn't a friend of yours, then?”

“Indeed he is.” Katharine exulted a little to herself. So Tom had noticed Tony. Things were moving as she had hoped they would.

“Well, why is he hanging about Elinor? I can't turn around lately but he's underfoot.”

“Hanging about?” Katharine looked at Mary with bland surprise. Her cousin frowned at her.

“That's what I said. You needn't pretend to be so astonished.”

“All right, then. I am not astonished. Elinor is left alone much of the time. I daresay she is bored. What could be more natural than that she should find friends to occupy her time?”

“Friends!” Tom's round face was flushed, and he clenched his hands once more. “She shouldn't be friends with a man like that. These town beaus are all the same—can't be trusted. They're too smooth by half. They inch themselves in where they're not wanted, and before you can blink, they've taken over. And when you try to speak to them about it, they won't face you and have it out like men. They talk and talk until you don't know where you are, and everyone is laughing at you, and then they shrug and turn away as if you didn't matter a rap. They should
all
be soundly thrashed.”

He sounded so absurdly young as he said this that Katharine felt a momentary twinge of sympathy for him, but she suppressed it. “Are you talking of Tony Tillston?” she asked. “It doesn't sound as if you are. He is not at all like that.”

Tom Marchington's flush deepened. “They're all alike, I tell you. And Elinor should not be seeing the fellow.”

“Well, I don't agree. But what has it to do with me, Tom?”

“You introduced them.”

“She met Tony in my house, yes.”

“Well, then, you're responsible. You must warn him off.”

“I shall do no such thing. And I suggest that if you do not like the way Elinor is spending her time, you fill it yourself. I am sure she would be happy to go about with you.”

“I can't!” He seemed genuinely upset.

Katharine shrugged.

“You…you don't understand.”

“Indeed?”

“No! You cannot know what it is like.”

She looked at her nails. There was a silence; Tom fidgeted in his chair. After a while he said, “You know all the nobs. Are you acquainted with this Stonenden?”

A little surprised, Katharine nodded.

“I suppose he's rich?”

“I…I believe so.”

“How old a man would you say he is?”

“Oh…about thirty. Perhaps a bit more.”

“Huh. He's almighty pleased with himself, isn't he?”

“I really wouldn't know.”

“How can you not? The man is insufferable.”

“Do you find him so? Perhaps you misunderstood something he said.”

“No fear of that. He makes himself plain enough. But if he thinks I'm going to slink off like a whipped hound simply because he comes on the scene, well, he's mistaken, that's all.”

For some reason, this allusion to Stonenden infuriated Katharine. “I don't know what you're talking about, Tom, but if you have nothing more pertinent to say, you may as well go.”

“What? Oh.” He rose. “So you won't speak to Elinor?”

“You and Elinor can deal with your own problems.”

“Ha. It's high time someone thought
that
. Very well. Good day.” And he strode out of the room before they could ring the bell.