A Banbury Tale (5 page)

“Even a sound tree,” proclaimed Eunice, her habitually perplexed expression even more dour than usual, “may bear rotten fruit.” Puggins snorted and rattled the teacups, bringing Eunice’s scorn down upon her head.

“That will do, Eunice!” Any impulse to further animadvert upon the housekeeper’s lamentable misconduct was inhibited by Tilda’s repressive glance. Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson seldom interfered in the long-declared war that raged between these two members of her household, for to do so resulted in arousing Eunice’s jealousy, an unhappy event that involved reproachful looks and wounded sensibilities. Vindicated, Puggins triumphantly withdrew. Eunice pressed a delicately embroidered handkerchief to her nose, and sniffled

“You needn’t exercise your mind about the chit’s birth, Eunice,” Agatha remarked. “I’ll wager no one else shall. We all follow our Regent’s lead—we do as we please and care only for our own whims.”

Eunice was stricken dumb by this forthright speech, but Tilda smiled. “You sound jaded, Agatha. Is this why you are so anxious that I should return to London with you? To relieve your tedium?”

“Certainly.” The Duchess observed that her hostess was looking exceptionally fine in a tight-sleeved dress of muslin, embroidered up to the throat and frilled with lace. It was unfortunate that such finery should be wasted on two old and unappreciative women. “You’re in good looks, by the way. Are those
freckles
I see?”

Eunice was not one to miss her cue. “Perhaps my cousin will allow herself to be guided by you in this matter, Duchess, since she refuses to heed me. I have told her that to show sunburn is unladylike. She must also strive to be more subdued.”

“Eunice!” protested Tilda.

Agatha was not inclined to agree with Eunice Scattergood on any matter, and certainly not as regarded Tilda. “Fustian!” she growled. “It may suit your notions of propriety to see languid and listless young females reclining on sofas, but it doesn’t suit mine. Refinement? Hah! The whole pack of them look as if they’ll sink into a momentary decline.” She glared at Tilda. “You’ll take care of that complexion, my girl, but no greater efforts are required of you.”

“Thank you,” replied Tilda, greatly moved. “You do not think Prinny will find me too robust?”

Agatha eyed the slender figure, and snorted. “He’ll find you, as always, too outspoken, I doubt not, and will flatter you outrageously, and may even offer you a slip on the shoulder, which I trust you will tactfully refuse. I expect that you behave with discretion. There are those who would not be unhappy to see you ruined.”

Tilda gave way to her rare and delightful laughter, but Eunice pursed her lips and frowned. “I cannot approve of such blunt speech,” she said, and jabbed her embroidery viciously. “Mathilda is still in mourning for dear Dominic.” The handkerchief reappeared, this time to be applied to a watery eye.

“No,” flashed Tilda, “I am not! A year spent in mourning was quite sufficient, and I will appreciate it, Eunice, if you will cease this imitation of a watering pot!”

It was one of Eunice’s most annoying traits that she let no set-down, no matter how severe, prevent her from having her say. She leaned forward, earnestness written across her faded features. “My dear Mathilda, I beg you to think what you do! Your place is here, in Dominic’s home, not among the pitfalls of town. It is what he would have wished.”

Tilda sighed. Eunice would not be satisfied until she had apprised them of Dominic’s thoughts on the matter, which invariably coincided remarkably with Eunice’s own. Agatha made an unladylike noise and applied herself to her tea.

Eunice assumed a visionary air. “I can almost hear him speaking to me,” she intoned, “as he so often did. Dominic wanted you to feel that this was your home, Mathilda. I recall several occasions when he told me I was to make you feel welcome here. I have always tried my best to do so.”

Tilda reflected sourly that although Tyre’s Abbey might belong solely to her by grace of her late husband’s will, she would never be other than an interloper in Eunice’s eyes.

“Dear Dominic grew up here.” Eunice’s eyes watered. “I recall him as a youth—and such a daring boy he was! Why, once the naughty lad left a toad in his governess’s writing desk, and when the poor creature had a spasm and chased after him with a warming pan, he fell down the stairs and broke his arm.”

Tilda listened, fascinated, to this rather startling description of her late husband’s salad days. She had every sympathy for the unfortunate, and decidedly ill-fated, governess. “This is fair and far off,” interrupted the Duchess impatiently. “Dominic is dead.”

“Dominic is still here,” Eunice protested tearfully. “This is his home, where he spent so much of his time. He sat, countless times, in this very chair.” She pressed her handkerchief to her eyes. “Dear Dominic would have been heartbroken to know Mathilda had chosen to abandon his home.”

“Poppycock,” commented Agatha. Tilda silently agreed. Dominic Tyrewhitte-Wilson had prided himself on his detachment, and though he might have permitted himself a vague affection for a few things, the ancestral manor was not among that scant number. Nor, reflected Tilda, not without gratification, was Eunice Scattergood. She turned to Agatha.

“Tell me more of your unfortunate traveler,” she coaxed. “I am intrigued.”

The Duchess shrugged. “It’s the usual tale. A young female sent off to make a suitable match. Micah put the girl on her mettle. I’ve a notion it’s the first time she’d met a gentleman of his stamp. He’d no more than opened his mouth than she was at odds with him, though the chit was too well mannered to show it.” She grinned, for the Earl had not cared to leave her in the company of two total strangers who might well be adventuresses, but his resultant ill temper had inspired the local blacksmith to mend the ramshackle conveyance in something less than record time. After summarily dispatching Micah on his errand, Agatha had turned her own carriage around so that she might convey the luckless travelers to a comfortable inn. There the Duchess had been in her element, indulging in apparent attacks of forgetfulness and conversation that often wandered off in strange directions, conducting an inquisition so subtle that her guests had no notion of her intense interest in them.

“Letty Jellicoe,” she said abruptly, as if conversation regarding that lady hadn’t ceased a good half-hour past. Tilda smiled. The Duchess might in appearance resemble a sweet, vague lady of elderly years, an effect that was intensified by fine white hair that refused to lie smoothly in a fashionable coiffure, but her sharp eyes missed little. “The girl will have a grand come-out, if Letty means to arrange the affair.” She frowned. “It puzzles me that Madeleine’s mother would not wish to take a hand.”

“Agatha, you’re an incurable meddler,” Tilda commented. Eunice tittered at this impudence, an act that caused Wordsworth to ruffle his feathers and burst into song.

“The chit has caught my fancy,” the Duchess retorted blandly. “She’ll
take
. Indeed, she may even become the rage.”

Tilda was not deceived by this studied nonchalance, for she knew that Agatha’s patronage would add immeasurably to the consequence of a mere country girl. “Miss de Villiers sounds out of the ordinary. Indeed, she must be, to have aroused your interest. Shall you abandon her to her fate, or do you mean to see how she goes on?”

“Since you are so full of questions,” Agatha replied, “you may return with me to London and see her for yourself.”

“Perhaps I shall.” Tilda wore a thoughtful air. “I confess I already pity her.”

“Good God, why should you?” The Duchess was startled. “The chit won’t want for suitors and will be settled in no time.”

“And you consider that a matter for rejoicing?” Tilda inquired. “I do not. If she is docile and obedient, then her lot will not be difficult, for she will consider her husband lord and master in all things. But if she is spirited, she may find the expected submission difficult to maintain.”

“She doesn’t seem to lack for spirit,” Agatha murmured, “but neither is she so hot-at-hand as you.”

Tilda frowned at her friend’s bland expression, and grinned. “Agatha, you wretch! You mean this girl for Micah.”

“You misjudge me.”

“I do no such thing! Tell me, on what do you base your hopes? Has Micah shown an interest?”

“Ah, no,” retorted Agatha. She suspected young Madeleine suffered pique that the Earl had been so impervious to her charms. “You’ll learn no more from me, my girl. You must come to London yourself if you wish further enlightenment.”

“Oh, I shall,” Tilda replied. “I would not miss this for the world. Micah enamored of a schoolroom miss—why, ‘twill be better than a play!” She paid no heed to Eunice’s murmured protests. “I only hope this girl mayn’t suffer over this.”

“Why should she, pray?” inquired Agatha. “Micah’s no scoundrel, for all he’s a rogue.”

* * * *

The accident to the coach had not been an auspicious omen, and, had Maddy been superstitious, she might have feared their expedition doomed. But they’d been rescued soon enough, and by a lady so kind that she not only elaborated upon London’s incomparable sights—such as Astley’s Royal Amphitheatre, celebrated for its displays of equestrian showmanship; the royal patent theaters of Covent Gardens and Drury Lane; the Royal Italian Opera House in the Haymarket—but had predicted that Maddy would be a success. Since the Duchess had promised herself the pleasure of calling when she returned to town, Maddy could only believe that their misfortune had been a blessing in disguise.

Motley had been less willing to succumb to the Duchess’s outrageous charm, and expressed curiosity concerning the whim that had led her to treat them with such benevolence. But Maddy placed no more importance on this excessive caution than on the Duchess’s odd notion that she had somewhere seen Motley before. Maddy paused before a tall mirror to regard herself with satisfaction. Her bronze curls were combed back and arranged in a coronet of curls, and careless ringlets framed her face. She wore a morning gown of sprig muslin that boasted double scallop work and sleeves drawn at the top with blue ribbons that matched the ribbon wound through her curls. On her feet were flat-heeled satin slippers that laced over the instep. Maddy’s reticule, which held such indispensable items as scent bottle, purse, and smelling salts, was also blue. She felt that she looked exceedingly fine.

Due to the belated hour of their arrival, Maddy had not yet made the acquaintance of her aunt, for members of the de Villiers family cherished few familial bonds and concourse between them had been limited to that which was unavoidable. She stepped into the hallway. Built in a central block with wings at each side, the Jellicoe town mansion was the most elegant structure that Maddy had ever visited.

This branch of the family, at least, appeared to suffer no financial hardships, for the house was packed to crowding with every imaginable item, Maddy’s fascinated gaze fell upon models of mummies, athenaeum friezes, exotic glass and china knickknacks, and sphinx-head ornaments. It could diplomatically be said of Letty that she had fallen under the Egyptian influence. Maddy half expected to find her aunt garbed in flimsy white and barbaric gold jewelry, like the legendary Queen of the Nile.

Despite her instinctive recognition that such overcrowded surroundings were more suited to an ambitious tradesman than to one of noble birth, Maddy could not help but be awed, more by the countless servants that her aunt kept than by any of the priceless treasures that were so casually displayed. The aloof and liveried footmen humbled her, whereas the silver chamberpot that was so discreetly placed in her bedchamber had set her into whoops of laughter, unseemly levity that Motley was quick to disapprove.

Maddy wondered if, were she to succeed in her plan to marry well, she would be expected to dwell in such overpowering grandeur. She wondered, too, what Letty would say to her in the interview that she now reluctantly moved toward. Maddy paused to stare amazed at a cast-iron Cupid that stood on a curly ormolu shell and held an inverted bow in his arms, and deduced correctly that he was meant to be an umbrella stand. Heartened by this absurdity, she resolutely turned her steps toward her aunt’s room.

Letty Jellicoe, clad in an elegant muslin
peignoir,
her hair hidden beneath a frothy lace cap, reclined on a crocodile sofa. She surveyed her niece critically, then gestured toward a fragile chair. Maddy seated herself, and waited for her aunt to speak. Letty, however, seemed more concerned with the taking of her tea. She subjected her niece to a thorough, and not particularly approving, scrutiny. Maddy fidgeted.

“I trust we may speak frankly,” said Letty, so abruptly that Maddy started. “I apprehend that your father made clear your purpose in coming here.”

“Yes,” Maddy replied. “I am very obliged to you for the opportunity that you have put in my way.”

“A polite way of saying you’re aware that I’ll be bearing the expense of your come-out,” Letty interrupted, “since your father was too much the spendthrift to provide for you.” Maddy watched with fascination as her aunt helped herself liberally to the pills and potions that stood on a bedside table. Among them were such well-known panaceas as Daffy’s Elixir, Dover’s Powders, and Dr. Mainwaring’s Pills. “Not but what I consider your mother is entirely to blame, having no notion of economy! But I will not trust myself to express further opinions on that score.” She scowled at Maddy. “Your manners appear unexceptionable, at any rate.”

Maddy stared. Neither her father’s tangled explanations nor her mother’s lack of comment had prepared her for her aunt. Maddy had envisioned a languid semi-invalid, not a raging harridan. She could not know that Letty was suffering the after-effects of an overdose of Purl, a medicinal drink of wormwood and herbs infused in strong ale. Nor could she know that Letty would have been better suited had her niece been dark-haired and plain. Letty was jealous of her own blond beauty and foresaw that this intruder would cast her in the shade.

“I will be blunt,” Letty said, as if she found the prospect distasteful. “You must be settled in matrimony in the shortest possible time, before your father’s creditors get wind of the true state of his affairs.” Maddy’s spirits plummeted. “Were I to leave the matter to him, he would make a sad botch of it, I’m sure, but I’ve no doubt I can bring it about. Come here.”