Miss Darby's Duenna (5 page)

What strange creatures brothers are!

JANE AUSTEN,
Mansfield Park

In the sunny parlor of her family’s elegant town house, Miss Georgina Hawthorne fairly twitched with impatience, while gentlemen of every description gravitated toward her future sister-in-law like moths to a flame. Although she was genuinely fond of Olivia, Georgina could not quite suppress the unchristian feelings of jealousy that gnawed at her heart. This, she discovered, was how virtue was to be rewarded!  It seemed that one who stood up for one’s principles was doomed to sit neglected in a corner, while masculine admiration was heaped upon those who had stood up merely for the waltz! Georgina, who had only recently been hailed as the belle of Leicestershire, was unused to such treatment. It had not been easy for her to sit demurely at Mrs. Darby’s side, rejecting all efforts to tempt her onto the dance floor. Perhaps worst of all was the knowledge that Mr. Collier was far away in Leicestershire, unaware of her sacrifice. If only he were there to tell her how much he admired her strength of character, to press her hand, perhaps even to kiss her fingers ....

A roar of laughter seemed to mock her wayward thoughts, and she darted an envious glance toward the little group clustered around the sofa where Olivia sat beside the marquess of Mannerly. The gentlemen were heartily amused by something Lord Mannerly had said, while Olivia’s pleasure in the marquess’s company was betrayed by the roses blooming in her cheeks.

Mrs. Darby, fond parent though she was, tore her eyes away from this evidence of her daughter’s success long enough to pat the hand of her young charge. “I told you so,” Mrs. Darby reminded Georgina sympathetically, quite correctly interpreting that damsel’s silence. “Gentlemen tend to be put off by a young lady with too much virtue.”

“No doubt they would prefer a lady with too little,” Georgina muttered, but as Mrs. Darby would no doubt have taken this envious outburst as an aspersion on her daughter’s character, it was perhaps fortunate that she was distracted by the appearance of the butler announcing a new arrival.

“The Dowager Lady Hawthorne,” Coombes announced woodenly, stepping aside to make way for a tall, solidly built matron to enter.

Georgina promptly forgot her troubles, her eyes widening at the unexpected reappearance of her grandmother. She had not seen her paternal grandmother since she was a child, but the old lady’s elaborately curled and powdered coiffure was exactly as she remembered it; indeed, Georgina doubted if her grandmother’s style of hair dressing had changed in twenty years. A closer inspection, however, revealed that time had indeed left its mark on the elder Lady Hawthorne. The dowager leaned heavily upon an ebony cane, although Georgina was quite certain that at the time of her visit, the old lady’s steps had been quick and sure. Her eyes, however, were still bright, and her square-jawed face was remarkably free of wrinkles—a circumstance which caused Georgina’s eyes to narrow in suspicion. But of her private misgivings Georgina said nothing, merely rising to greet her aged relation.

“Grandmama! What a pleasant surprise,” she said aloud, crossing the room to press her dewy cheek to the old lady’s powdered one. “Harry!” she hissed in an undervoice. “Have you run quite mad?”

“I think 1 must have, for I feel dashed silly,” replied her relative in like manner. “And how you females manage to walk in these deuced uncomfortable shoes is a mystery to me.”

“But what are you doing here, and in that get-up?”

“I have come to meet my grandson’s bride,” he announced in a high falsetto. “And if you are referring to my lavender merino, young lady, I beg leave to inform you that this gown happens to be all the crack for ladies who are past the first blushes of youth.”

“I—I am sure it is,” replied Georgina, demurely lowering her gaze in order to conceal her laughter. “Come with me, ma’am, and I shall introduce you to Miss Darby.” Seizing the square hand straining the seams of a white kid glove, Georgina led her relative to the sofa where Olivia sat laughing at Lord Mannerly’s latest sally. “Grandmama, may I present Miss Darby, Harry’s fiancée?    Miss Darby, my—my grandmother, the dowager Lady Hawthorne.”

Georgina enlarged upon the introduction to include the bevy of gentlemen who comprised Olivia’s court of admirers, but Harry, taking Olivia’s gloved hand, heard nothing but the pounding of his own heart. His sister, it seemed, had recognized him instantly; would his fiancée penetrate his disguise as easily? If she betrayed him before Mannerly, well, there would be nothing for it but to sail for America, or perhaps India. Certainly he could not remain on British soil; his humiliation would be too great. For the first time, he wondered what had possessed him to adopt this crack-brained scheme. He strongly suspected Almack’s Assembly Rooms of serving something stronger than the lukewarm lemonade for which they were notorious.

For her part, Olivia stared mesmerized at the specimen which would soon be her relative by marriage. She had known that Harry was said to resemble his grandmother; she, too, had seen the Romney portrait at Hawthorne Grange, but nothing had prepared her for the vision which stood before her. The warm hazel eyes, the breadth of shoulder, the square jaw and the large, mannish hand clasping hers—if she did not know better she could almost suppose. . . . But of course poor Lady Hawthorne could not help her mannish appearance. It was unkind to indulge in such foolish imaginings at an old lady’s expense.

“How do you do, my lady?” she murmured, moving over to make room on the sofa for the dowager.

“So you’re the chit Harry plans to marry,” said the old lady in shrill accents. With a contemptuous glance at Olivia’s circle of admirers, he added, “My grandson is a fine young man. Make you an excellent husband!”

“I’m sure he will, ma’am,” agreed Miss Darby dutifully.

“So tell me, child, what d’ye think of London?”

“Oh, I like it of all things!” Olivia said brightly, unwilling to confess before witnesses that Sir Harry’s infrequent appearances made her Season something less than brilliant. “We visited Almack’s last night, and tonight Lord Mannerly has offered to escort us to Covent Garden. Is that not generous of him?” she added, with a smile for the marquess.

“Generous, indeed,” concurred the dowager with a nod, fixing Mannerly with a purposeful eye. “I daresay I have not set foot in a theater in a quarter of a century. Much has changed since then, I’ll warrant.”

Lord Mannerly saw the look in that eye, and conceived a dislike for the septuagenarian almost as profound as that which he harbored toward her interfering grandson. He had the greatest aversion to being trapped by any female, be she seventeen or seventy. But as it could hardly further his cause with Miss Darby to deliver a stinging set-down to the grandmother of her fiancé, he merely bared his teeth in a smile noticeably devoid of humor. “I should be honored, Lady Hawthorne, if you would join my party.”

“The honor will be all mine, I am sure,” replied Sir Harry with unholy glee, having a fair idea of the emotions warring behind the marquess’s urbane façade. “You may call for me here, if you please, at eight o’clock. And do be prompt—I abhor dawdlers.” Bracing himself with his ebony cane, Sir Harry hoisted himself off the sofa and onto his aching feet. “And now, if I am to enjoy such a treat tonight, I must return to my lodgings and rest. Georgina, dear child, you may see me to my carriage.”

“Yes, Grandmama,” said that young lady, eagerly seizing the opportunity for a moment alone with her brother. She grabbed the old lady’s arm and propelled her out of the parlor at a speed quite unsuited for the dowager’s advanced years. Having reached the black-and-white tiled entry hall, however, she turned on her sibling. “All right, Harry, now will you tell me the reason for this ridiculous charade?”

“Shhh!” hissed Sir Harry, darting a furtive glance toward the parlor door. “It’s that Mannerly fellow. I don’t like him, Georgie.”

A tingle of excitement chased down Georgina’s spine. So her instincts regarding Lord Mannerly had not been so far off the mark! “Why not?” she asked, agog with curiosity. “What has he done?”

“The tale is not fit for a lady’s ears,” replied Sir Harry piously. “Suffice it to say that Mannerly detests me as much as I dislike him, and would not hesitate to serve me an ill turn if he had the chance.”

The violence of her own reaction to the marquess’s blatant masculinity was enough to convince Georgina that her brother might indeed have reason to be concerned.
“That
I can readily imagine! But why the disguise?”

“Because he’s a loose fish, Georgie, and I’ll not have him sniffing around Livvy in that curst encroaching way of his. As a lady of, er, mature years, I shall be able to keep an eye on Livvy without her being the wiser.”

Miss Hawthorne regarded her brother with a knowing eye. “You forbade Olivia to have anything to do with him, didn’t you, Harry?” It was a statement, not a question.

“Dashed right, I did!”

“I thought as much. Really, Harry, how could you be so foolish? Surely you must have known you would drive her straight into his arms!”

“No, I didn’t!   Indeed, why should I?” Sir Harry demanded, justifiably outraged. “I thought she was a sensible girl who would listen to the advice of her future husband!”

Georgina, unimpressed with this speech, rolled her eyes heavenward. “Men!  Or women,” she amended quickly, casting a dubious glance at her brother’s female garb. “Whatever you are, Harry, I vow I’ll never understand you!”

* * * *

With his sister’s parting shot still ringing in his ears. Sir Harry returned to Stratton Street and laid aside his disguise. Half an hour saw him back in Curzon Street, this time in his own persona. He tossed his hat and gloves to an unsuspecting Coombes, then mounted the stairs to the parlor, where Mrs. Darby was still receiving callers. Lord Mannerly, he noted with satisfaction, was no longer among their number.

“Why, Harry!” cried Mrs. Darby, holding out her hands to her future son-in-law. “You will never credit it, but your grandmama has returned to Town! If you had arrived a little earlier, you might have seen her yourself, for she paid us a visit not an hour ago!”

Sir Harry expressed his surprise at this unexpected pleasure, then greeted his sister with a smile of bland innocence before turning his attention to his primary object.  Here his resolution wavered as he remembered their heated words at Almack’s.   Should he play the wronged lover, or the apologetic suitor?  He wrestled briefly with indecision before rejecting both roles in favor of cautious formality.

“Your servant, Livvy,” he said, raising her hand to his lips. “I trust I find you well?”

Olivia responded in kind. “Quite well, Harry, and—why, Harry! You have shaved your sidewhiskers!” she exclaimed, every trace of constraint banished.

“Well, yes,” admitted Sir Harry, rubbing his newly shorn jaw self-consciously. He was unused to the sight of himself
sans barbe,
and the face that had stared back at him from his looking-glass that morning following Higgins’s operation had seemed strangely unfamiliar.  “I daresay they would have soon been
passé
anyway, now that Brummell has shaven his.”

Privately, Olivia felt their removal an improvement, although Sir Harry would have been less than pleased to learn that his clean-shaven look reminded her forcibly of the boy she had once followed about on her pony, in those halcyon days before he had discovered a preference for Town life.  These fond reflections she kept to herself, turning her attention back to her mama, who was engaged in making Sir Harry known to the other callers. Foremost among these was a stout matron and her pretty daughter, a petite blonde in a demure sprig muslin gown who nevertheless assessed the new arrival with a predatory eye.

“Mrs. Brandemere, Miss Brandemere, may I present my future son-in-law, Sir Harry Hawthorne? Mrs. Brandemere and her daughter are in London for Miss Brandemere’s come-out,” explained Mrs. Darby as Sir Harry made his bow.

“Sir
Harry Hawthorne, is it?” asked the matron, training an appraising stare upon the newcomer. “Knight, or baronet?”

“Baronet,” replied Sir Harry.

Mrs. Brandemere nodded. “I thought you looked a bit young to have already been knighted, although it seems all one must do these days is lend Prinny a large enough sum of money. Better to be a baronet, at any rate, since your son will be a ‘sir’ someday. ‘Tis a great pity you are not a ‘lord,’ but I daresay you will do very well for Miss Darby.”

“Mama, pray don’t start that again,” begged Miss Sylvia Brandemere, although her fluttering eyelashes and simpering smile belied her protestations.

“You must know, Sir Harry, that I have every expectation of someday hearing my daughter addressed as ‘your ladyship,’ if not ‘your Grace.’ Although such an advantageous match for the daughter must be a disadvantage to the mother—imagine how very odd I shall feel when she precedes me in to dinner!”

“Now, Mama, I am sure Sir Harry does not care who I should marry!” protested the future peeress, giving Sir Harry a look which clearly invited him to contradict this statement.

Much to his relief, he was spared the necessity of framing a reply by the gallant intervention of the parlor’s only other male occupant, a white-haired gentleman of imposing size whose creaking movements betrayed the necessity of a Cumberland corset to restrain his girth.

“On the contrary, Miss Brandemere, on that day every young man in England will mourn. Why, if I were fifty years younger, I would wish for a coronet myself, so that I might lay it at your feet.”

The widowed Mrs. Brandemere, who was not averse to making a second marriage herself, fairly beamed with pleasure. “Oh, prettily said, Colonel! I am sure you would make any woman a worthy suitor, title or no!”

The colonel gave a soulful sigh. “That might have been true at one time, Mrs. Brandemere, but alas, my heart was long since lost to this young man’s grandmother. You are the dowager Lady Hawthorne’s grandson, are you not?” asked the colonel, addressing himself to Sir Harry.

“I am indeed, sir.”

“I knew her when she was still the Honourable Harriet Langford. Fine figure of a woman, your grandmama! I regret that I, too, arrived too late to see her. You’ve a great look of her about you, if I may say so.”