Suzanne Robinson (4 page)

No, Mother wasn’t the problem. The problem had always been his father.
Father
—what an ironic appellation.

It had taken Cheyne quite a while to realize just how distasteful his existence was to his father. This was because, like all children of his class, Cheyne saw little of his parents until he was almost an adult. Raised by nannies, then sent to Eton and Cambridge,
his contact with the duke and duchess had been limited to appearances in the drawing room at teatime. Even then Cheyne’s tastes had irritated His Grace. Frederick James William Tennant Allington’s ideal man was a sporting one. He remembered countless equine trivialities, such as the names of every Derby winner since 1870. He could recall hunt events in excruciating detail. But he couldn’t abide five minutes of conversation about philosophy, science, music, literature, or art. This last word, upon the duke’s lips, became an epithet, which he spat out as if it were the vilest obscenity.

Cheyne winced as he remembered the times he suffered his father’s ridicule for daring to bring up a forbidden topic. The subject of Mr. Charles Darwin had earned him a beating. He worked his shoulders, trying to ease an imaginary sting. His back bore three crossed scars, the legacy of His Grace’s riding whip.

And books. Books other than those on sport led a short life at Grosvenor Square. Cheyne learned to hide them, especially the Shakespeare, for if the duke found them, he would toss them into the fire. The day his father threw
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
into the flames was the day he earned Cheyne’s contempt.

The memory was bright, like a painting by Renoir. Cheyne had been hiding in his room reading instead of going for a walk in Hyde Park with his brothers. No loud footsteps warned him of the duke’s approach. Suddenly he was there, looming over Cheyne like some fairy-tale giant.

“What’s this? Shakespeare, that drivel!”

Father ripped the small leather volume from Cheyne’s hands and hurled it into the fireplace. Cheyne yelped, jumped up and would have rescued the book had the duke not caught him and tossed him into a corner. Cheyne hit his head on the wall. With pain searing his skull, he curled into a ball and sobbed while the duke stomped out of the room. By the time Cheyne had recovered, the book was beyond saving.

That was the day Cheyne made up his mind to show his father. Show him he could be as great a sportsman as his older brothers. Show him that a boy who loved music and books could excel at riding, shooting, wrestling. Eventually he had shown the duke. What had hurt was that it hadn’t made a difference. The fact that Cheyne grew into an expert marksman and rider only made his father furious. When Cheyne became a member of the Horse Guards, His Grace was nearly apoplectic.

Slumped against the mantel, Cheyne studied the glowing coals, his spirits black at the idea of spending perhaps months in the company of the duke. He’d rather face that absurd little barbarian and her motorcar.

Why did he think of her now? True, he couldn’t seem to get her image out of his thoughts. Her midnight hair and black-flame eyes lingered in his memory, and he kept hearing her strong, lowpitched voice carrying those absurd phrases of hers—
dang, your own blamed fault, blind as a posthole
, whatever that was.

Cheyne turned and rested his forehead against the cold marble mantel. “God, she probably knows less than Father about Shakespeare.”

The last thing he needed at the moment was to allow himself to become obsessed with a pretty savage. Far better to dwell on the coming ordeal than allow such a useless passion. Besides, he didn’t even know her name.

 
3
 

Mattie stepped out of Spencer House into the cold March night and hugged her fur-lined cape around her body. The cool evening air filled her lungs, and she felt renewed determination to change, to reform her wayward character and fulfill Papa’s dream. She
would
remember to be sweet, gentle, and good.

In the glow of the new electric street lamps she could see the tops of the plane trees in Green Park; their bare branches scratched at the night sky. Looking over her shoulder, she saw her friend Narcissa Potter being helped into her cloak by a footman. Mama was nowhere to be seen.

Going to the unveiling of the Duchess of Bracewell’s portrait had been Mama’s idea. Mattie had almost reached the limit of her endurance of Society. She’d been fed up since she’d been presented at court last month. The aged Queen Victoria had made one of her few public appearances. Mattie had been as
nervous as the dozens of debutantes being introduced. The one saving feature of the whole evening, in Mattie’s opinion, was that the queen had the right idea about Society. Like Mattie, she thought there was entirely too much of it.

Nearly running over that obnoxious young man in Park Lane had made Mattie long for the freedom and ease of New York. There people knew how to cross streets without blocking innocent motorcar drivers. In New York people didn’t call each other savages and look down elegant noses with aristocratic contempt. Mattie flushed as she remembered her adversary. His anger would have been easier to deal with had he not been so handsome. Somehow, being given a dressing-down by a man who looked like he’d been born to wear royal ermine and a sword of state made the experience downright embarrassing.

“Don’t think about him.” Mattie stamped her feet inside their silk slippers and paced on the front step. So far this command had failed to keep her mind from dredging up the man’s image at the oddest times.

“No-account and self-important, that’s what you are, Mr. Tennant. I don’t care how pretty you are, I never met a ruder man in all my born days.” She turned and nearly stumbled over her train. “Danged dress.”

Preferring to wear simple skirts and blouses, Mattie disliked having to dress in gowns such as the one she wore now—all delicate Honiton lace from shoulder to train, with kid gloves of the same hue that
bore dozens of tiny pearl buttons. These matched the pearls sewn into the center of the lace flowers that made up the design of the Paquin gown. Her only consolation was the simple flowing lines of the gown; the infamous bustle was no more, and the skirt hugged her hips, then fanned out to leave her legs free. Mattie pulled her cloak closer, careful not to crush the white rose on the pearl dog collar at her neck. She didn’t want Mama to see her gown until they arrived at Grosvenor Square.

The town coach appeared around the corner as the coachman walked the pair of matched Hanoverian creams. They snorted, blowing mist into the air and raising their hooves high. Mama had hired the vehicle along with a brougham from a London jobber, then had the coach repainted and polished. Mattie scowled at the brightly colored family crest, an invention of Mrs. Bright’s. Ever since Ward McAllister refused to list her family among the four hundred who could fit into Mrs. Astor’s ballroom, Elsa Jane Bright had become even more fervent in her quest for respectability and social acceptance. After all, Mattie needed to attract a nobleman, didn’t she? Her recent campaign included commissioning a coat of arms—fictitious, of course. The Brights had never been anything but plain ordinary folk, which Mattie had pointed out to no avail.

Now Mattie folded her arms, snorted at the crest—a rearing black stallion on a field of gold—and muttered, “Never saw anything so all-fired foolish. Unless it’s Mama in a tight-laced corset.”

“Did you call me, dear?”

Elsa Jane hurried out of the house with Narcissa close behind. Mrs. Bright’s coloring had been as vivid as Mattie’s, but her hair was mostly silver now. Her figure had thickened with childbearing, but her bright pink cheeks and lively expression made her seem younger than her years.

“No, Mama. I didn’t call you.”

“It’s Ma
ma
, dear. Pronounce it like the French do. The other way is so common.”

“Aw, Mama.”

“Please, dear. You have promised to employ the correct accent and diction when we’re among people of quality.”

Knowing her mother was right, Mattie glanced at Narcissa and sighed. Narcissa had been to boarding school in France and was a two-year veteran of the London Season. With curling gold-and-wheat-colored hair and an expression of impending mischief, she had captured the heart of St. John Everly, Earl of Millhaven. Mama constantly held up Narcissa as an example to Mattie. Mattie knew that Mama had no notion of the escapades at which Narcissa excelled, including riding her horse through Burlington Arcade. Half a dozen shopkeepers had complained to the police.

But there was no use arguing with Mama. Besides, if she was going to make Papa happy in heaven, she was going to have to improve herself. Luckily Mattie was good at accents. It was a simple thing to adopt the clipped flat tones of the upperclass
Englishwoman. Indeed, aping the speech of blue-blooded Society ladies afforded both Mattie and her friend amusement during dull evenings among the rich and insipid.

“Very well, Ma
ma
. I shall endeavor to speak in a civilized manner,” Mattie said through the top of her mouth. “I say, though, this evening promises to be perfectly appalling. You know I don’t care a snap of the fingers for dukes and duchesses.”

Mrs. Bright gathered her black lace train and entered the coach with the help of the footman. “There’s no use speaking elegantly if your opinions are vile, Matilda Bright. Now get in this carriage, or we’ll be late.”

“I don’t see why we couldn’t take the motorcar,” Mattie grumbled as she got in after Narcissa. “Mr. Theodore Roosevelt would take his motorcar. So would Mr. Edison.”

“Mattie,” her friend said, “the ride might be short, but our hair would come out of its pins before we got around the corner and you know it.”

Mama sniffed. “And I don’t see Mr. Edison or Mr. Roosevelt getting themselves invited to the Duke of Bracewell’s.”

“You wouldn’t catch them at a party full of boiled shirts.”

“I’ll hear no more grumbling from you, Matilda. Remember your poor father.”

A rush of longing caught her unprepared. Mentioning Papa was certain to force Mattie into compliance, and Elsa Jane knew it. When Mattie was
little, if Papa wasn’t too tired, she used to climb in his lap as he sat on the porch of the ranch house after dinner. Together they would gaze at the wide Texas sky, ever on the lookout for shooting stars. Each time they saw one, they made a wish. She remembered the way she’d felt, so safe and loved, as if nothing bad could ever happen.

She missed being able to talk to a man who wasn’t secretly counting her money. The distance between ladies and gentlemen here seemed vast, and she had little hope of meeting anyone with whom she could be herself. And she missed her brother and sister. Her older brother was back home managing the family’s assets. Her younger sister was in France being finished. Dang it. Being a Society belle was a lonely and miserable lot.

To cover her emotions, Mattie helped Narcissa arrange the folds of her train. Her friend’s coloring suited the white silk gown covered with lace appliqué. Narcissa gave her a sympathetic smile and a wink. Mattie smiled back; Narcissa always knew when Mattie’s spirits plummeted and was often able to bring her out of it with one of her silly facial expressions. A little mischief was allowed, since her fiancé was away seeing to his land interests in Africa.

The short drive to Grosvenor Square was filled with Mama’s instructions on correct behavior. Mattie only half listened and got out of the carriage as soon as it stopped in front of the grand ducal mansion that lay behind a wall of stone and wrought iron. Gazing up at the facade, Mattie felt Narcissa
poke her with her elbow and remembered that staring revealed how little she was used to grand surroundings. She followed her mother and friend into the imposing entry hall topped with a stained-glass dome. When Mattie handed over her cloak to a footman, she heard her mother suck in her breath.

“Matilda Bright,” came the theatrical whisper, “where is your padding?”

“Left it off. Don’t need it.” Most ladies added pads to their corsets to create the necessary rounded effect and further reduce the size of their waists by contrast. Mattie thought she was padded enough naturally. Besides, the pads were hot and cumbersome. No sense trying to reform if she got sick from the heat and vomited in front of everyone.

Before Mama could object, Narcissa took Mattie’s arm and swept her over to the line of guests waiting to greet the Duke and Duchess of Bracewell. Mattie had never seen two more oddly matched people. The duke, stocky and wind-burned, had bushy brown hair and side-whiskers. In contrast to his exalted station, his height was only moderate, but Mattie was amused to see that he had an unlit cigar clamped between his teeth—despite the fact that smoking at such a function and in the presence of ladies was against the rules of polite convention. As Mattie approached, she noticed that His Grace greeted with enthusiasm only those friends with whom he could discuss some sport.

Beatrice Maud Allington stood beside her husband, a delicately made porcelain figurine to the
duke’s leather-and-brass appearance. Her silver hair was piled high and bore a tiara of enormous diamonds. With her long legs and arms, high forehead and angular features, she was far more regal than her noble husband.