Althea (13 page)

“You may stop fanning me now,” she said sharply. “I am quite
recovered. Undoubtedly it was the heat. And the punch
was
strong.” She
cast truth to the winds, since the lemonade served here was renowned for its
insipidity. Tracy regarded her with a glimmer of understanding in his otherwise
wholly polite, disinterested glance. The perfect calm of that glance irritated
Althea, already full of irritation with herself and with Pendarly. The final
knowledge that she owed Calendar every courtesy made her wish to box his ears,
or do something to mar his imperturbable grin. She managed instead an almost
creditable smile.

“I understand that you have Brummell completely captivated,
ma’am,” he said lightly. “It is not every woman who can say so. I suppose now,
rather than my company increasing your credit, yours will increase mine.”
Althea’s smile drooped; this sally did not amuse her. “How did you put him at
your feet? He is said to be proof against mere beauty — it is George himself
who says so — and God knows women enough have tried.” The satirical quirk was
in his brow now, and Althea recognized a strong urge to strike that red head.

“I captivated him with my respectable conversation, sir,”
she said shortly.

“Your respectable conversation? O happy Brummell to have
heard such a thing. I have never been so privileged.” His tone was dry, his
manner aggrieved. The urge to hit him grew stronger and stronger.

“Perhaps that is because you rarely speak in a conversation
that is respectable, sir, and do not recognize it when you hear it. When I was
still in the schoolroom my governess told me that the wisest thing to do is to
pattern one’s conversation after that of the people one converses with. If you
do not speak respectably, then I must try to speak as barbarously as you do,
only to be polite.” She wished that this were a ball where she might vanish
into the crowd. She wished the
entr’acte
would end and the lights of the
theater go down one more time. She wished she did not have the maddening urge
to cry.

“Perhaps sometime you will honor me with a little of your
respectable conversation, ma’am. If I called tomorrow would that be too short
notice?” Tracy asked humbly, his eyes gleaming wickedly.

“I regret I will not be at home tomorrow,” Althea said
stiffly.

“At any time? That is very sad for me, ma’am. Another day
will do as well.”

“Certainly.” Althea resolved that no matter what day he
called, she would not receive him.

“There, you see, I have quarreled
you
out of your
sullens, as you were so kind as to do for me the other day when we drove to
Danning. And I see the curtain is about to rise again. Good evening, Miss
Ervine. And rest well. Nothing seems quite so grim by daylight.” He made a
polite bow and sauntered away, pausing to greet Harriet Leveson-Gower and a few
of her party, who were just then entering the box.

Althea was miserable; now she owed that infuriating man even
more — for he
had
diverted her thoughts for a few blessed minutes. And
he knew, she was sure now, of all that had happened to her that evening. The
rest of the opera went by uneventfully as she tried to piece together a scheme
whereby Francis would return to Maria, and she would make her thank you to Sir
Tracy (without having him laugh at her for it, which she suspected he might
well do), and have five minutes alone with Edward Pendarly to tell him her
opinion of men who made fools of hapless women.

When she returned to the house at Grosvenor Square that
evening Maria was standing in the hallway, just back from a card party she had
been promised for. As she chattered to her sister of the evening’s gossip, they
climbed the stairs and made toward their bedrooms. Just before they parted,
Maria remembered something and turned back to Althea to rejoice her with this
bit of news.

“What a triumph, Ally! Brummell told Sally Jersey that you
have speaking eyes!”

“Oh, Maria, do please shut up!” said the triumphant sister
miserably.

Mr. Edward Pendarly, happily unaware of Althea Ervine’s
discovery, sent her a note the next morning regretting the fact that he had not
seen her again at the opera. He then set out, uncomfortably, for his daily call
of duty at the house of his betrothed, Miss Georgiana Laverham.

It had ceased to be an article of wonder to him that he
could pay such a visit and then go directly to call upon Miss Ervine: having
resolved to hold, as long as he could, Althea’s good opinion, he went after his
foredoomed happiness without much thought as to how discovery might affect her.
He had no great opinion of himself, and could not believe that the loss of one
more admirer could cause her the slightest distress. Thus he persuaded himself
that his behavior was not so very infamous after all. It was a matter of
indifference to him whether Miss Laverham knew of his flirtations or not — at
least he told himself this was the case — and he remained remarkably calm
whenever he went to sit in the drawing room of the Laverham house. No sighs or
lingering looks of reproach, however much he might have anticipated them, were
forthcoming, so he really had no practical idea how proof he could be against
such tactics.

It was only the night before that Fulvia Laverham, in company
for the first time since her daughter took ill, had learned of Miss Ervine’s
existence. In fact, she might have remained blissfully ignorant had it not been
for an obliging friend, who specifically sought her out to wreak what damage
she might on Miss Ervine’s reputation and Mrs. Laverham’s peace of mind. When
she was informed that Mr. Pendarly waited below, Mrs. Laverham excused herself
from her daughter’s bedside and descended to meet him.

She was in fine fighting temper. She had just spent an unpleasant
half-hour with her daughter, whom she had apprised of Pendarly’s perfidy. To
her disgust Georgiana had not become enraged, but had merely subsided into weak
tears and said that if her dearest Edward truly loved another,
she
would
not stand in his way, although it broke her heart. Mrs. Laverham, no weak soul
herself, was disgusted by this want of spirit in her only child, and resolved
that the wretch should find no easy atonement for making her little girl so
miserable.

In her own mind, she was Boadicea defending her kingdom; to
Edward Pendarly, she appeared more like one, or perhaps all, of the Furies
descending upon him. For the first time be wondered if perhaps his reserve was
as strong as he thought.

They went to the drawing room, where he waited in polite
silence until she had settled her considerable bulk into a chair, and then
inquired after Miss Georgie’s recovery. In the usual course of things Mrs.
Laverham would have said that dearest Georgie was doing as well as might be
expected. Today she drew a deep breath before she began to speak: Pendarly knew
a second twinge of apprehension. Mrs. Laverham released the breath in a long
sigh and stated that her daughter was Not Very Well At All.

Mr. Pendarly was properly sympathetic, asking what could be
interfering with Miss Georgie’s splendid recovery. His concern was sincere
enough: he had no reason, except the desire to be quit of her (but not her
considerable fortune), to wish her ill. Mrs. Laverham, however, did not seem to
think his degree of regard was proper. She resolved to speak more clearly.

“No, I am grieved to report to you that Georgie is not well
at all. Her poor dear spirits have been thrown quite low, and I am sure she
would have lain there all morning weeping had I not told her it might distress
you to hear of her doing so. She desired me give her best love to you.”
Pendarly acknowledged this with a smile. “Some dreadful stories have reached
her ears from somewhere, although I cannot imagine who would tell such tales to
my poor, sick darling.”

Pendarly grew a shade paler, the lady noticed with
satisfaction. She continued with relish: “I cannot, of course, say what these
stories were, for such a sweet, honorable thing as my Georgie is, she would not
tell me the whole of it, but only suffers in silence. I do know, however, that
she mentioned your name more than once.” Pendarly blushed at this, then grew
paler still. “Have you been much about town these weeks, sir? I have hardly
seen a soul these days, although I did get out to the opera last night. It does
one good to be brought up to all the new faces that appear during such an
absence. Georgie will be quite captivated when I tell her who I saw last night
— if she has left off her crying.” Mrs. Laverham allowed herself the luxury of
a perfectly malicious smile at his confusion. He, in his turn, could only
murmur that he thought Brummell had returned to town from the country, and that
he hoped Mrs. Laverham had enjoyed the opera.

“Do you know, Vinnie Warin said she saw you there, sir, but
I collect she must have been mistaken.” There was a plain threat in the lady’s
voice now, and Pendarly’s complexion rather compared to the color of a tallow
candle. He said soberly that he supposed that Lady Warin must have been
mistaken, but this admission did not appease his hostess. There was a slight
lull in the conversation and then, once Mrs. Laverham had rallied her defenses,
she inquired after the health of Pendarly’s Uncle Paul (the profligate) and his
dear Grandmother Celicia (a compulsive wagerer). Pendarly’s speech was so
reduced by this time that he could only choke out something to the effect that
he believed they enjoyed tolerable health before the power of speech left him
completely.

Half an hour after his arrival, when Edward Pendarly rose to
take his leave of Mrs. Laverham, he was a chastened man. Mrs. Laverham, having
succeeded in bringing him to reason, as she termed it, rose also, and
graciously reminded him that he was always a welcome visitor, and asked if he
had any messages to send up to the poor invalid. He stiffly sent his assured
affection and inquired meekly as to when Miss Georgiana could see visitors.
Mrs. Laverham informed him airily that it could be any day
now
, and
Pendarly wished her a hurried adieu as cordially as any man so thoroughly
chastened could be expected to.

Mrs. Fulvia Laverham, filled with the satisfactory feeling
of a job well done, ascended to her daughter’s room to assure her that she need
not worry: Mr. Pendarly’s affections, as always, were hers. And would stay so,
if the gentleman knew what was wise, she muttered, but not loudly enough for
her child to hear.

o0o

Althea, along with her chocolate, received the day’s
complement of letters and invitations, including a note from her father, which
she opened straight away, hoping that that, at least, would afford her some
amusement. His usual pomposity, and the unusual talent he had for stating
something three times over in flowing phrases, did much to render his letters
unreadable. This morning’s missive, however, surprised her in that it was
written with a lucidity born of desperation: domestic affairs at Hook Well had
apparently come to such a pass that Sir George was willing to admit some
possible fault on his part, if that would speed his daughter’s return to housewifery.
All in all, Althea considered it quite the kindest, most liberal letter she had
ever received from her father, and while she had no intention of returning to
Hook Well until, she thought grimly, she had taken care of certain business, it
made the thought of her eventual return that much easier.

After a few minutes’ reflection on the infelicities of her
father’s epistolary style, Althea reluctantly turned to a note that bore Mr.
Pendarly’s hand. The whole tone of his address she now regarded with altered
sentiments and felt to be entirely too familiar, however ordinary the
sentiments might be. He regretted not seeing her again, hoped she had finished
the evening happily, and suggested that he might like to call upon her in the
afternoon. He was her most devoted servant. Althea crumpled up the paper and
flung it on the floor with an imprecation that startled Banders, just entering
the room. That he would dare to address her in such terms, she thought
indignantly, forgetting that two days before she would have thought his terms
quite correct: she was in no humor for reason. The trouble with rational-minded
people, she reflected bitterly, is that when they wish to be unreasonable,
their rationality gets in the way in the most unsatisfactory manner. Maria was never
troubled this way, nor Francis, nor her father, nor Merrit. She wondered in
passing if perhaps Sir Tracy Calendar had ever noticed this problem. That
thought irritated her, too, and she called sharply for Banders to lay out her
riding dress, saying the only thing for it (Banders had no idea what “it” was)
was a good ride in the Park, and the Polite World, such as might be abroad at
the unseasonable hour of ten in the morning, might stare at its pleasure.

o0o

Tracy Calendar, up early, gave his horse a run through the
Park before making his way to Manton’s Shooting Gallery for an hour’s practice.
He was in a state of contemplation and did not see Althea Ervine when she
passed him, accompanied by a sour-faced, indignant groom. Miss Ervine saw him,
was surprised that he did not return her salute, and, as he passed on and she
continued, remembered with a blush the way they had parted the night before.
Perhaps, she thought shamefacedly, he was so out of patience with her that he
had resolved to cut her. When she considered the debt she owed him, a slow
flood of color infused her face. A day ago she would have laughed off his cut
as a jest or a simple lack of attention and counted it no matter. Now she found
herself thinking in the most remarkably fusty, melodramatic terms: everything
was a portent. The rest of the ride, intended to cool her charged emotions, was
troubled by new worries over this incident and she returned to Bevan House as
troubled as when she had left it.