A School for Brides (24 page)

By an ingenious arrangement involving a mirror hidden in a shawl, she had managed to cheat her hostess out of a neat little sum of money last night. Imagine! A le Strange reduced to cheating at cards in order to scrape up enough money for coach fare! Still, cheating a cheater did not count as a moral failing, not in Miss le Strange's opinion. The money she had won from Mrs. Westing was her own, taken from her by depraved and wicked means.

However, it was essential that she get away from Lesser Hoo as swiftly as possible, before Mrs. Westing had the opportunity to win it back. To that end, she and Maggie were loitering in the road next to the school, and she was wishing that the ground under the
paille maille
alley would open up and swallow every one of the players and onlookers. The alley consisted of nothing more than a long green stretch of mowed lawn, with a large hoop set into the ground at each end. It was situated right across the drive from the orchard, which was where Miss le Strange needed to make a discreet retrieval.

“Go and distract them,” she ordered Maggie. “Faint, or something of that nature.”

Maggie's opinion of the gentry's concern for their inferiors was not high. She doubted a fainting servant girl would disrupt an agreeable afternoon's entertainment, and therefore chose another tactic. Like her mistress, she disliked dogs; she looked around for Wolfie, without result. Then she advanced to stand in front of the lawn billiards alley and, pointing away from the orchard, screamed as loudly as she could.

Startled, the young ladies and gentlemen looked up.

“The dog! The one that looks like a wolf! It's killing the chickens! Oh, shoot it before it destroys them all!”

Although Maggie was pointing in a different direction from the chicken coop, which was tactfully hidden behind the house with the other unaesthetic aspects of a functioning country estate, it was impossible to entirely dismiss her accusations as a bag of moonshine; the group began to drift in the direction she was pointing.

Miss Pffolliott was sitting apart with Mr. Godalming, thanking her stars that Mr. Rasmussen had been prevented by business from paying a visit today and wondering how she could maneuver Mr. Godalming into proposing as soon as possible so that she would be able to send Mr. Rasmussen away. She was therefore slow to realize that her dog was being most unfairly slandered. When she did realize, she leaped up from her bench and spoke Wolfie's name. He rose up from his place of concealment behind the seat, looking like some demonic apparition erupting from the infernal regions into modern-day England. Even though by now they had good reason to believe in the dog's essential kindliness, several of the more delicately strung young ladies shrieked at his sudden emergence.

“He is not doing anything of the kind,” Miss Pffolliott said indignantly.

“No, indeed, he is not,” Mr. Godalming agreed. “That dog wouldn't kill a chicken if his life depended on it.”

“My mistake,” said Maggie, having ascertained that her mistress had concluded her business at the apple tree. “Beg pardon, I'm sure.” She bobbed a curtsy and departed the scene, following in Miss le Strange's footsteps back toward the dower house.

Well before she had caught her up, she realized that her mistress was in a temper. Maggie had seen the signs—the clenched fists, the stiff shoulders, the fast, angry step—far too often to be mistaken. Prudently she held her tongue and waited for Miss le Strange to speak.

Which Miss le Strange did soon enough: “The scheming little s-s-snake!” she hissed, too angry to speak without sputtering. “She
knew
! She bided her time and then she crept out here and
t-took
it! The little viper!”

Maggie, who had a fairly good idea of what had been hidden in the apple tree, was not about to admit to it. Innocently she inquired, “Who, Miss? Who took it? Was it anything of value?”

Miss le Strange was too furious to be cautious.

“Anything of value?”
Miss le Strange snarled. “It was the necklace, you fool! And of course it was the Crump creature. She had the temerity to look affronted when she saw me wear it! I had every intention of letting her have the rest of the parure—they were lesser pieces anyway. But that necklace was magnificent.”

Maggie considered saying
I see, Miss
in a neutral tone of voice, but thought better of it and remained silent.

“I want that necklace, and I mean to get it back,” Miss le Strange said, striding along and breathing heavily, like a prize hunting horse that has been run neck-or-nothing across hill and dale. “I
deserve
that necklace, after the way I have been treated.”

This time Maggie deemed it safe enough to say, “Yes, Miss.”

THE NIGHT OF
the ball was upon them. Mrs. Fredericks had spoken lightly of limiting the guests to the members of the Winthrop Hopkins Academy and their visitors, but of course it could not be done; the whole of the landed gentry for twenty miles around had to be invited, dignitaries were summoned from London and York, and in the end invitations, beautifully inscribed on thick, cream-colored paper, were sent to everybody from the village and environs who had any pretensions at all to gentility. As the Fredericks were by far the wealthiest family in the district, an entertainment like this was anticipated to be grand indeed. Unlike the star party, which had achieved elegance by the simple expedient of decoration with the heavenly lights, the Crooked Castle ball was to glitter with more earthly, and more costly, adornments.

In the past year, the Castle had undergone substantial renovation, amounting in fact to demolition and reconstruction on another location. The Fredericks had chosen to honor, and even to exaggerate, the whimsical nature of the building, which was not truly ancient, but rather a romantic's dream of a medieval fortress. They had added a great number of spurious towers, crenellations, flying buttresses and carved archways, increasing the architectural confusion of the original. It was a structure of considerable charm, which, now she had married and no longer lived in it, Lady Boring called
vulgar
.

Tonight Crooked Castle wore its festive attire; everything that tapestry, bannerettes, flowers, and candlelight could do to make it ready for a gala had been provided. The great hall was decked in feudal splendor, a feast fit for a twelfth-century royal court had been prepared for the guests, and a full orchestra was quartered in the little drawing room, playing a Haydn concerto. A trotto or a passamezzo might have been more appropriate for the medieval theme, but, as Mrs. Fredericks explained, they made her feel as if she ought to be wearing a jester's motley and a belled cap instead of a ballgown.

Mr. and Mrs. Fredericks stood in the hall greeting their guests as they arrived, making each welcome regardless of rank or station. Owing to the short notice, Mrs. Fredericks's mother and stepfather—the Marquis and Marchioness of Bumbershook, who lived at the extreme opposite end of the country—had been unable to attend. There would therefore be nobody ranking higher than a baron present, which meant that the complex rules of precedence could be a
little
less in evidence and the gathering a
little
less formal.

Mr. Fredericks had insisted upon including some of his business cronies; these persons, never having been in the company of so many blue bloods and landed proprietors in their lives, huddled together and talked shop in sepulchral tones. The ladies from the school were embraced by Mrs. Fredericks, divested of their wraps, and had glasses of claret cup, enlivened with French champagne, pressed into their hands. Soon the hall had filled up; the older ladies and gentlemen began to think about repairing to the card room for a hand or two of whist, while the younger set arranged itself in readiness for a country dance.

The Boring party arrived late, evidently in an attempt to indicate Lady Boring's independence. Lord Boring was pleasant and friendly, as always. His mother, Mrs. Westing, went to the card room, explaining that Miss le Strange was indisposed and had begged to be excused.

“Poor creature, she does feel ill,” said Mrs. Westing as she sat down to a table and began shuffling a deck of cards with the unnerving expertise of a professional sharper. “Lately she has not even been well enough to join me in a pleasant game of chance, however hard I importuned her.
Quite
unfair, as she has recently won a large sum from me and now refuses to give me the opportunity to win it back.”

“Tasteless ostentation! Oh, these
nouveau riche
, so gaudy, so common!” Thus amiably, and none-too-quietly, spoke Lady Boring, the stepsister of the hostess. “And look at that perfectly dreadful man! I do believe he's a bookmaker at a racecourse, or a moneylender. What
could
have possessed dear Althea to allow him in the door? The woman must be mad!”

The man in question, who had indeed at one stage in his career been known to lend money at a rather high rate of interest, hunched over a little more in an attempt to disappear, and wondered if these excursions into high society were worth the discomfort. His wife, who had had great ambitions for the evening, eyed him accusingly. However, the merchants and their wives soon found a safe harbor in a small chamber off the great hall, which had been fitted up as a sitting room.

While they were actually experiencing the Crooked Castle ball, it provided these worthy merchants with only moderate pleasure, but in years to come they recounted its glories, speaking as though they had, for this one night, been on equal terms with the gentry and nobility of Northern England. By the time they had grown old, it had become elevated in their memories to one of the great events of their lives.

Mrs. Fredericks was observing her party with a hostess's eye. By and large, she was content with what she saw. She had known quite well that it was too much to expect the local elite to mix with her husband's business friends, and was glad to see they had found a refuge whence they could watch the rest of the company unseen. She sent a footman to attend to their needs and then forgot them. Soon enough her husband would join them, and she would have much ado to make him remember his duties as host.

It was Miss Mainwaring who concerned her, and Mr. Hadley. She had been unable to snatch a moment's private conversation with her niece before the ball, and was reduced to making deductions based upon observation. Miss Mainwaring was pale and unhappy. She was lovely in white, her hair and toilette simple, unassuming, and exquisite, but there were blue shadows below her eyes, and her lips were downturned.

And Mr. Hadley was not behaving like an ardent swain at all. He did not make any obvious attempt to woo either Miss Mainwaring or Miss Crump, but stumped gloomily along behind the latter, scarcely speaking or raising his gaze from the floor. He never once looked at Miss Mainwaring that her aunt could see. Miss Crump, of course, was an enigma. Who could judge what emotions flitted across the face of one so heavily shrouded? Even here, in the ballroom, where a bonnet was unacceptable, she had managed to make herself invisible in a veil of diaphanous muslin of the most delicate weave, draped over her head and shoulders.

In Mrs. Fredericks's opinion, her niece's romance was not prospering.

Miss Crump was, in fact, very uneasy. Before the ball, she had begged for Miss Mainwaring's assistance. Not only did she want her help with the recalcitrant head covering, but she hoped to unburden herself to her friend, who had so suddenly and unaccountably turned uncommunicative.

“Oh, yes,” said Miss Mainwaring dully, “I should be happy to do what I can,” and indeed, she did an excellent job swathing Miss Crump in the material and pinning it so that it would not come undone.

“I know you are likely quite surprised that I have accepted Mr. Hadley's offer of marriage,” Miss Crump murmured, feeling as though the effort to confide was like the effort of rolling an immense boulder up a hill, “but I hope that you, my friend, will not condemn it. You see . . .” She paused, seeking a glimpse of Miss Mainwaring, whose face was turned away and who seemed out of sorts. “I confess I do not . . . I do not love him, whatever that may mean. Indeed, he startles and confuses me with his endless talk of rain. But . . .” This was one of the longest, and certainly most difficult, speeches she had ever made in her life, and Miss Mainwaring was not helping at all. Miss Crump began to feel aggrieved. She had come to expect more of Miss Mainwaring. “In fact, I am marrying him to remove myself from Miss le Strange's control. She . . . she terrifies me, far, far more than Mr. Hadley. If I am married, she can have no dominion over me. If my father wishes to make her his wife, it is not my place to object, but as a married woman myself, I can limit my visits to my father's household. I can plead . . . oh! All sorts of reasons why I do not wish to go and see them.”

She drew a deep breath and soldiered on, pushing her boulder uphill, with Miss Mainwaring silent at her side.

“I am at peace with my decision, save for one thing. Miss Mainwaring—that is, Cecily,” said Miss Crump, attempting to get her friend to look at her, “do you believe it is wrong for me to abandon my father to that woman's mercies?”

Miss Mainwaring uttered a small sound, like a despondent bird. She turned and looked full at Miss Crump. “Thank you for explaining your actions to me, Jane. I will allow that I
had
wondered. I had thought you immovably opposed to his suit. I understand you now, and I cannot find fault with what you have done. Your father must look out for himself. In general, I believe that fathers are loath to take advice from their daughters on these matters, so I doubt in any case that he would listen to your protests. Mr. Hadley is—is a kindly gentleman who will treat you well.” Here she broke off and, stifling a sob, was forced to leave the room.

Miss Crump drew what comfort she could from this conversation, as meager as it was.

Miss Pffolliott would have been enjoying the ball, if only Mr. Rasmussen were not present. His manners, never polished, had deteriorated drastically when he discovered he had a rival. Miss Pffolliott had hoped that the matter could be handled without drama, but Mr. Godalming was by now deeply in love, and quite as outraged by the presence of Mr. Rasmussen as the latter gentleman was infuriated by his.

Contrary to the usual expectation, Miss Pffolliott was not made happy by having two men quarreling over her. She stood as if between two enraged bulls, her own small person the sole impediment preventing them from locking horns in a battle to the death. Both men loomed over her, one on her left and one on her right, each demanding in a loud voice to be allowed to bring her refreshments, each adamant that she dance with
him
first.

“But, Mr. Rasmussen, you know I have already told you that Mr. Godalming engaged me several days ago for the first two dances.
You
did not ask me until just now.”

“Well, I didn't know I needed to, did I?” he demanded belligerently. “How was I to guess this bracket-faced bumpkin was going to turn up? I don't know how a pretty girl like you can even contemplate dancing with an ape like that. I should think the very idea would make a young woman of sensibility come over faint and have to lie down.”

“Mr. Rasmussen, pray keep your voice down. He hears you.”

“So I should hope. Old chawbacon! Who is he, anyway? Some yeoman or small freeholder, I expect—Fredericks doesn't seem to care
who
he invites to his house.”

This was too much for Mr. Godalming. He had been able to control his temper when his appearance was insulted; he was wholly unable to do so when his large and prosperous estate, all three thousand acres of it managed by the latest and most advanced methods, was referred to as a “small freehold.”