Second Season (21 page)

He debated a letter, but again, the acquaintance was too slight. The incident at Bath had not been mentioned between them, and while she must know he was aware—how could he be ignorant of what everyone in Bath knew?—might she not be affronted by any reference to it? He did not know, could not judge her reaction to a blunt inquiry, and dared not chance setting her back up.

His next idea was the possibility of encountering some of Lord Stanwood’s friends in the London clubs, and in this he was successful. Unfortunately, those whom Arthur knew at all well were all bound for shooting parties far away from Northamptonshire. In desperation, he sought information on Sir Geoffrey, but while he turned up the names of a few cronies, none was at all familiar. After four weeks of asking casual questions, Arthur had nothing but the general statement that Lord Stanwood was a sound man, and the son was satisfactory.

Unaware of his cousin’s efforts, Julian was busily arranging his trip, and if Arthur was discouraged, Stepan was even more so. Every time they reached London, he slipped over to the rear of Park Street, but Anatole had no news. Not even a groom had been sent down from Stanbury since the end of the measles. “At this season it is never,” said Anatole comfortably. “
Alors
, it is as good as a vacation. Have another slice of this
tarte de pigeonneaux, mon vieux
.”

Stepan began to feel desperate, this constant moving about was very unsettling. They had now been more than a year in England, and Stepan discovered within himself a reluctance to resume the old life of ships and rented villas. He thought that the duke’s heart was not in it, either. They had been once to Plymouth and thrice to Portsmouth without milor’ finding a voyage to suit him. For some reason he was determined on Greece; at last, grudgingly, he settled for Malta, to weigh anchor in early December, but despite commanding suitable clothing for southern climates and being fitted at Weston’s whenever they were in town, Stepan was by no means sure they would actually take ship.

On the other hand, Lady Imbrie had returned to Calydon from Bath, and in the duke’s present frame of mind, Stepan was glumly certain that a week of his mother would cause milor’ to depart whether he really wanted to travel or not.

If only it were possible to consult Maria, but Stepan’s penmanship was limited to Greek. Robsey could write for him and read the reply, but what could Stepan say that would not be a breach of discretion? From the stable maps, he painfully located Stanbury; he judged it to be about a four-hour ride from Calydon. In the old days, he would have asked for the loan of a horse and some free time “to improve an acquaintance, milor’,” and his grace would have granted it at once, “On condition you report progress” or perhaps, “If she has a sister, I’ll come with you.”

He would probably still give permission, but Stepan shrank from the appearance of dalliance when the duke was so far from it. He had decided to chance it when they were at Bascombe. “Here, all reminds him, why must that stupid Cargill insist on telling milor’ the report from Miss Stanwood’s gardener? Definitely, I must see Maria; I will do it when we return to Calydon ... we must certainly return; milor’ would not depart with a personal leave-taking, would he?”

November arrived, and they were still in the south going back and forth between Grosvenor Square and Bascombe. The duke’s new wardrobe was completed; he was going over financial affairs with his Uncle Biddulph and outlining estate work with Lord Arthur. Stepan was more and more anxious, but finally his grace said, “We leave for Calydon tomorrow. Arrange about the horses, I’ll get in some hunting, and we’ll go direct to the ship. Robsey can send what’s here to meet us in Portsmouth.”

“Very good, milor’.”

The instant his grace had left for his club, Stepan slipped over to Anatole, where at last good fortune awaited.
“Ahe, mon copain,
you find us
affaire.
Sir Geoffrey arrives
sans un mot.
Tomorrow he goes,
grace a Dieu,
but for tonight there must be the ‘snoog dinnair,’ ” the chef snorted wearily. “
Alors,
they have eaten, they have gone to lose the money on the cards.
Asseyez-vous,
Stepan—and do you know Jemmy, who is the Tiger?”

“No, I have not had that pleasure,” Stepan bowed politely, to which Jemmy choked on his coffee.

“Coo-er, ’oo’s this cove?” but once the amenities were observed, Jemmy was a mine of information—except that his English was Cockney interlarded with boxing cant and various expressions better known to Bow Street than to gentlemen’s servants. Luckily Anatole did not understand Jemmy any better than Stepan, and was so insistent on having things explained that Stepan returned to Grosvenor Square with the gist.

“Why are you still packing at this hour?” the duke demanded.

“Because I have visited a friend this evening,” Stepan replied cockily, “and there is a development.”

“I trust you have not left your calling card with any maid belonging to my neighbors,” Julian grunted, tossing his neckcloth aside.

“No, no, it is not that sort of development, milor’—merely that Mees and her sister have made refusals, and all becomes so uncomfortable they have gone to stay with an aunt.”

“WHAT?” Julian whirled, his eyes blazing. “Where had you this?”

“From the Tiger of the brother who comes unannounced for a day before a shooting,” Stepan shrugged casually, “I do not know which aunt. It is a Lady Alden.”

Julian stared at him transfixed. “Good God,” he said in a hushed voice. “Good GOD!”

“Please?” Stepan widened his eyes alertly.

The duke made no answer. Slowly he disrobed, his eyes fixed on space while Stepan quietly removed discarded clothing. At long last Julian turned to his servant and clapped him on the shoulders. “Be of good cheer,” he grinned. “You may yet have ‘that Maria.’ We leave at nine.”

Immolated at Alden, Emily had no cheer at all. Her eyes filled with tears on the slightest excuse, until her aunt roundly censured her for a stupid pea-goose. “Do not be putting on these lachrymose airs to be interesting,” she advised. “You are far too young to wear the willow, particularly for a young man who—from what I can discover—has been treating you as a sort of younger sister.”

Emily’s tears then became resentful, until Charlotte got her alone, and said “Aunt Eliza is right, you know. It will not do. My dearest sister, do but consider the embarrassment for Eustace.”

“How so?”

Sharlie steeled herself against the widened blue eyes. “Darling, he never said he loved you, never hinted at an offer. In fact, there was no word in his letters that might not just as well have been addressed to the entire family,” she pointed out, “and it was sheer folly for you to be making a secrecy of it that has cost Maria her job. I do not know why Eustace should have lent himself to such idiocy, except that he is very easy-humored and would accede to whatever anyone suggested.

“It must be embarrassing enough for him to receive the set-down which I doubt not papa sent him for ‘illicit correspondence,’ when he’d meant no more than to give news of his well-being to a family that had, in some sort, treated him as a relative, but how
much more
embarrassing to discover that you have taken this as a distinguishing mark of attention for yourself alone! Emily, dear,” Sharlie went on earnestly, “only think of his position. You must not—you really must
not
give him the reputation of a heartless betrayer, for nothing is more easily believed than that a handsome officer has trifled with a young lady’s affections and blithely departed to the wars. It could ruin him for further promotion in the only career he has.”

“Oh, no!” Emily protested aghast.

“Oh, yes,” Sharlie said firmly. “If you care for Eustace, you will strive for composure, and at once, Emily. Thus far, your tears seem merely shame for naughtiness, but let them continue and the servants will gossip—once that begins, the fanciest tales will fly about. What’s more,” grimly, “the worse they are, the more they’ll be credited. Remember Bath!”

“It was not the same thing at all,” Emily shook her head, “and in any event, it all blew over—but I shall never see Eustace again. Oh, Sharlie!”

“I don’t know,” her sister said slowly. “I wish you would be sensible, darling. Think! It was always hopeless at this moment, but let Eustace return with preferment, and if you have found no other preference, I fancy papa would entertain his offer. That is, should he make one.” Sharlie eyed Emily’s rosy blush suspiciously. “What makes you think he will? Has he said so?”

“No—but I know,” Emily said simply, “and I shall not find any preference, no matter how many seasons I have.”

“I suppose not,” Sharlie agreed ruefully. “I remember now: you were always the most stubborn brat imaginable, constantly tagging after Geoff and me when we were trying to escape from Miss Dunning.”

“I expect I was a nuisance, I could never walk as fast or as far as you,” Emily smiled reminiscently, “but it was so wonderful to be with you. I thought you were grown-ups, you know, because you used to be sent for after dinner, and you seemed to know so much more than I did. You still do.”

“By no means,” Charlotte muttered drily. “At least you know your own mind—but however, if you are fixed on Eustace, I can tell you how best to go on, for you have made a sad hash of it so far. First, you must
stop
crying and put Eustace aside for the moment. You must make every effort for normal happy enjoyment of every day, until it appears you are recovered from your attachment.”

“And then?” Emily asked, lips parted in earnest attention.

“You must go through your London seasons, accepting flowers and favors, with just enough flirting to convince Mama you are willing to bestow your heart. The more offers, the better. Papa won’t force you to accept,” Sharlie pointed out, “but then, when Eustace turns up, it will be obvious to Papa and Mama that you will have no one else, so they might as well agree.”

“You make it sound simple,” Emily said after a moment, “but that could take years, Sharlie—and what if he were to be ... killed?”

“That is a risk all women take, I fancy,” Sharlie replied. “Mama is often uneasy when Papa goes hunting or competes in a private race ... and how would it be different if you were Eustace’s wife? Would it not be worse to lose what one has known, become accustomed to love, than never fully to have known it at all?”

“Do you really think so?” Emily asked doubtfully.

“Of course. How horrid to be a widow!”

“Yes—look at Lady Inverclyde.”

“By all means,” said Sharlie. “She is the perfect example, for she was not at all as she is now before Inverclyde’s death. Mama says she was the sweetest, dearest, most delightful person in the world.”

“Lady
Inverclyde?
Charlotte, you’re bamming!”

“No, I am not. Ask Mama.”

Emily was very thoughtful for the rest of the day, but by dinner time she had regained composure and made a valiant effort to join in the conversation. Unfortunately, her aunt had also been cogitating, and the outcome was that Emily was not sufficiently occupied.

“The devil finds work for idle hands. Keep her too busy for repining,” Lady Alden said to herself—and forthwith unloaded all her less agreeable chores on her niece. Let Emily attend the Sewing Circle for Orphans ... let Emily supervise the games for Johnny’s birthday party ... let Emily finish the embroidered altar cloth Lady Alden had started in a burst of piety (and a siege of gout).

“Good God,” said Emily desperately, “she has a new notion every time I enter the room, Sharlie. I’ve scarce time to dress for dinner or wash my hands, let alone think.”

“I fancy that’s what she intends,” Charlotte returned, “but I can’t be sorry for it, darling. You’re looking better every day. Do admit you don’t really mind caring for the children.”

“No, of course not. They’re such darlings,” Emily smiled fondly. “Did I tell you what Johnny said this morning?”

“No, and I beg you won’t,” Sharlie said forcefully. “If ever there was an ill-conditioned brat!”

“Now, that is not fair—merely because he spilled the paints over your riding boots,” Emily protested.

“He did it deliberately, because I wouldn’t delay to play spillikins with him—but he won’t do it again. I went as I was, and told Uncle George
why
my boots were soiled.”

Nevertheless, life became calmer when Emily was busy, and Sharlie often accompanied her with the children, for which Emily was devoutly thankful. “They mind you so much better, I don’t know why.”

“It’s because I don’t ask, I
tell
them, and if they disobey, I give them no sympathy.”

“But that makes them afraid of you.”

“And so they should be, the silly gudgeons. You’ll notice they think twice when I say ‘don’t’ after Johnny fell into the stream because his legs couldn’t manage the stepping stones,” Sharlie said impatiently. “I suppose you’d have comforted and cosseted, but it was far better for him to be forced to lose the rest of the treat by going home for dry clothes, as well as having to explain to Aunt Eliza
why
he wasn’t with us when we returned.”

Sharlie spent most of her time on Moonshine’s back, and as much as permissible with her Uncle George. He made no objection to her riding his land with him, but he was a taciturn man who lacked Lord Stanwood’s ready laugh and easy humor. His decisions were always the letter of the law, and lacked any forward vision. Time and again Sharlie bit her lips firmly to suppress protest against his refusal to try a new way ... and yet, she began to see that if Lord Alden moved slowly, his movements were sound. His land was more varied than Stanwood: his people were different, but he knew them as well as her father knew his tenants. Where Stanbury was used to impulsive change and trial, Alden Manor was happier with
status quo.