Amanda Scott (18 page)

“Oh, the underbutler is quite capable,” her ladyship replied, turning to push open the door to a charming bedchamber, done up with white muslin curtains that boasted pink silk ribbon ties. There were likewise pink silk cushions and a quilted pink-and-white bed-covering. The walls were papered in a pink, green, and gilt French print that had been all the rage just before the revolution in that country, but her ladyship eyed it askance now. “Really, I am going to speak to Francis. This room is positively dowdy, Sylvia, and I must apologize. Perhaps there is another that would be more suitable, although I cannot say, for I am persuaded that nothing has been done to refine the interior of this house in many years. Indeed, I cannot think when was the last time Greyfalcon’s papa allowed me to repaper a single room.”

“Never mind, ma’am. I find this bedchamber charming, and I am certain I shall be perfectly comfortable here. If I pull the bell cord, will they know to send Sadie?”

“I daresay,” said the countess in a vague tone that showed quite clearly that her mind was still on the decor. She moved to the window. “At least the view is a good one, for you look over the garden. I remember when Greyfalcon—Francis’s papa, that is—first brought me to this house; my own bedchamber looked out over the street, and even with the windows shut quite tightly and the curtains drawn, one could not sleep for the noise. If it is not carriage wheels rattling on the cobblestones, it is hawkers bellowing at one to purchase their wares. Really, most unnerving. I changed my room at once.”

“’Tis a lovely view,” Sylvia said, moving to stand beside her. The garden below was not large and did not look as though it had received a great deal of care over the years, but its very wildness lent a certain charm, and at the moment nearly everything growing there appeared to be in bloom, displaying a bright patchwork of vivid colors. From her window, she could see over the rear wall into the mews, but the stables were set far enough back that she did not anticipate being disturbed by any activity there.

Lady Greyfalcon looked at her searchingly. “I am glad to have you here, my dear. I declare, I have come to look upon you as a daughter these past months, so I hope you will not take it amiss if I give you some advice.” She paused, but when Sylvia only regarded her with wide-eyed curiosity, she went on quickly, “Do not allow yourself to be overset by Francis’s temper. And pray do not attempt to tell me that he was not displeased with you just now, for I noticed when we intruded upon your
tête-à-tête
that he was looking like bull beef.”

“What a thing to say, ma’am!” But Sylvia laughed. “He was not best pleased with me, to be sure, but I think perhaps the brunt of his anger was still directed at the fellow who accosted me on the pavement.”

Lady Greyfalcon shuddered eloquently. “What a dreadful thing to have happened. You will be quite safe here now, however, for I shall order one of the larger stableboys to remain out front by the steps at all times, as we do at home. One does not wish to be assaulted upon one’s very doorstep.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Now, then,” said her ladyship with more of that new decisiveness in her voice, “we must arrange to visit my modiste at once. I shall need some proper mourning clothes, for I do not intend to hibernate or to turn away callers. You may be certain of that. And you require a great many clothes yourself, for you have been allowed simply to vegetate in Oxfordshire, and I mean to put a stop to that.”

“But, ma’am, I cannot allow you to frank me.”

“No more I shall. Indeed, I have not the means to do so, for as I have told you time after time, my dear, my husband was most ungenerous. No, no, your bills shall be sent to Lord Arthur, and mine”—she grinned like a child in mischief—“mine shall be sent to Greyfalcon.”

Sylvia was a bit wary of following the countess’s advice, but that very afternoon she allowed herself to be borne off in her ladyship’s elegant landau to the shop in Bruton Street that enjoyed Lady Greyfalcon’s custom whenever she chanced to be in town. Since this happy event had been postponed for several years, her modiste was particularly pleased to see her, and even more pleased to learn that Lady Greyfalcon had brought Miss Jensen-Graham to be thoroughly rigged out in the first style of elegance.

“Bad enough that I shall have to go about looking like one of the Tower rooks, Celeste, but it would never do for my dear Sylvia. Her light has been hidden under a bushel long enough.”

“Indeed,
madame
,” said the plump woman who whisked hither and yon like a dervish to present materials and patterns for their careful inspection. “If I might be so bold,
madame
, no color suits you so well as black. You are a vision,
madame
, with your so-white hair and your exquisite skin. So slender as to appear to have height, and such a manner,
madame
. Quite regal,
madame
.”

Lady Greyfalcon lifted her chin a little. “Perhaps you are right. The color suits me well enough, but I don’t care for it. I prefer gaiety, Celeste, as you know, bright colors.”

“
Oui, madame
. I, who serve you, know this well. But you have condescended to take advice from my unworthy self before, and I tell you, black is excellent. With this so beautiful black crape, a trifle of Naples lace here, and just here”—she indicated the appropriate places on the pattern plate—“and
c’est magnifique, madame
.”

Sylvia had been observing critically, uncertain whether to trust the countess’s modiste to assist her, but after this exchange, she relaxed. Céleste, who was one of the many émigrées to escape France during the Terror, was apparently a woman who knew her business.

When the other two turned their attention to her, Sylvia was quite willing to allow herself to be talked into ordering a new riding habit and several evening gowns, for she knew she could not continue to wear the three gowns she had had from Joan. Indeed, a young lady rarely wore the same dress twice if she did not wish to be condemned for a dowd. But when the countess began ordering large numbers of morning and afternoon frocks, walking dresses, shifts, and underdresses, she cried out in alarm, “Ma’am, desist if you love me. Papa will—”

“Have an apoplectic seizure?” inquired the countess sweetly. When Sylvia stared at her in dismay, realizing she had been about to say that very thing, and to a woman whose husband had died of such a seizure, the countess laughed. “Really, Sylvia, do not wear your thoughts so clearly upon your countenance. ’Twill never do. One must appear always as though one has behaved with perfection, particularly when one has not. No, no, do not apologize. I see that you must be introduced to Mr. Brummell, who will give you the same excellent advice. He never apologizes for the dreadful things he says, and people only listen more carefully to hear what he might say next. Have you ever met him?”

“No, ma’am, but truly I ought not—”

“Piffle. My husband’s own temper carried him off, and I can promise you that your father can’t hold a candle to him in that regard. If he is distressed by your expenditure, refer him to me. He is well aware of the fact that I know better how to spend money than I know how to do anything else, so he will not expect you to argue with me. And don’t think Lord Arthur can’t afford to spend a little. The change will do him good.”

“I am sure you know best, ma’am, but I should prefer not to outrun the constable. I do not need so many gowns, certainly not immediately. After all, I do not even know how long Papa intends to allow me to remain in London. I came up only to exchange that book for Mr. Perceval’s five thousand pounds, you know, and to spend a week or two with Joan.”

“Well, we are all here now, and I for one do not intend to leave so soon as that. I am persuaded that town life agrees with me better than country life did, and I daresay I can manage to persuade your father to let you remain as long as you like if I put my mind to it.”

Sylvia did not have the heart to debate that statement. She did reflect, however, that although her parent had never had anything of a complimentary nature to say about the countess, he had escorted her to town and had, moreover, accepted her invitation to stay at Greyfalcon House. Perhaps it was uncharitable of his loving daughter to think that he had done so only to save himself the expense of a hotel.

After they had paid visits to the shop of Mrs. Clevenger, the excellent milliner in Covent Garden, where they were waited upon by the owner’s son, who knew a great deal more about millinery than most ladies knew, and to the shoemaker’s in St. Martin’s le Grand, where Sylvia ordered a pair of new riding boots of York tan leather as well as dancing slippers and sandals for everyday wear, they retired to the landau with such packages as they had been able to carry away with them.

“Oh, my dear, what a day. I declare I am quite exhausted.”

“You ought not to have attempted so much, ma’am,” Sylvia said, worried that her hostess had indeed overtaxed her strength. “Your heart is so uncertain. I am persuaded that you ought to be laid down upon your bed instead of trotting about with me.”

“Piffle.” But her ladyship leaned back against the plush squabs and shut her eyes. Just as Sylvia was quite certain that the countess was fast asleep, one eye opened. “I’ve given orders that you are to be put down in Berkeley Square, dear.”

“That is very kind of you, ma’am, for I must take my leave of Joan and see that my things are properly packed. Sadie is at Greyfalcon House, after all.”

She discovered, however, that all was in order for her departure from Reston House, for someone had evidently sent word to Lady Joan earlier in the day.

“I thought at first that the message came from the countess, you know,” that young woman told her, “for it stated merely that Miss Jensen-Graham was removing at once to Greyfalcon House and that it would be appreciated if her belongings could be organized for immediate collection. Then I decided the note was too pompous to have been written by her ladyship. Not that I have received any other messages from her, but you did read the one you received this morning. Not at all the same flavor, I assure you.”

“No, it isn’t,” Sylvia agreed, thinking of the countess’s rather impulsive but vague manner of writing.

“I suppose Lord Arthur wrote it.”

“No, Joan, I don’t think it would have occurred to Papa that my things ought to be collected from Reston House.”

They stared at each other as it dawned upon Lady Joan that there was only one person who might have taken it upon himself to write such a note.

“Why didn’t he sign it?” she asked.

“Was the note on gray crested paper?” Joan nodded. “No doubt he thought a signature unnecessary. Do you come with us tonight?” Sylvia added in an attempt to forestall further questions on that particular subject. “Lady Greyfalcon has decided that it is perfectly in keeping with her state of mourning to go to a simple reception where there will be nothing more frivolous than quiet conversation.”

“’Tis sometimes more than that,” said Joan with a laugh, “but Harry enjoys Mr. Rupert Ackermann’s weekly gatherings, so I daresay we shall meet you there.”

Accordingly, Sylvia and Lady Greyfalcon met Lord and Lady Reston that evening at Ackermann’s Repository of Arts, which spread itself from number 96 to number 101 in the Strand. The shop was a popular gathering place, where persons of fashion gathered one evening each week to view Mr. Ackermann’s latest prints and to converse with other members of the
beau monde.
Mr. Ackermann had begun only the previous year to publish a monthly periodical with the same name as the shop, and Lady Greyfalcon was one of the many persons on his subscription list, so Sylvia was well acquainted with the magazine, a faultless production containing exquisite color prints displaying furnishings and furniture, dress, carriages—indeed, all the appurtenances of elegant living—but she had never before attended one of Ackermann’s receptions.

When they arrived at the large, brightly lighted shop, the countess dismissed their coachman, giving orders that he should call for them in an hour. “For I do not believe we will wish to stay longer than that, my dear, although if you do desire to go on with Lady Joan, you may certainly do so. I shall return home, safe in the knowledge that Reston will look after you properly.”

Joan and her husband were already there, standing by a rack of new prints. Lord Reston was turning them for his wife and another, rather stout lady, whom Sylvia recognized as Joan’s Aunt Ermintrude. Reston was a slim gentleman of moderate height with light-brown hair arranged in a windswept style with long side whiskers. He wore a coat of dark blue over yellow pantaloons tucked into shining topboots, and his well-starched white neckcloth was neatly if conservatively arranged beneath his firm chin. He was a handsome man, but one who seemed quite unaware of his masculine beauty. He paused now with a neat bow and a smile, having seen the newcomers before his wife did.

“Good evening, Lady Greyfalcon, Sylvia. You know Joan’s aunt, Lady Ermintrude Whitely?” They nodded, exchanging greetings, and Reston went on, “I was sorry to learn of your departure today, Sylvia. Rather abrupt, was it not?”

“Indeed, sir, you must not have heard the whole tale,” the countess said, speaking in her usual dignified and carrying tone as she accorded him a polite nod.

Sylvia, noting that Lady Ermintrude and other persons in the vicinity were displaying sharp curiosity, interrupted quickly to assure Lord Reston that she had merely bowed to the countess’s entreaties. “So dull for her, you know, sir, alone in that great house with only Greyfalcon and my esteemed parent for company. Papa’s nose is always in a book, and Greyfalcon—well, he is Greyfalcon. I could do no less.”

“And you needn’t,” put in his wife, speaking just as quickly, “think for a moment that she has left me in the lurch, Harry, for not only do I have dear Aunt Ermintrude to bear me company, but I go about much more than Lady Greyfalcon can do, for I am not in mourning. And you have already said that you think it an excellent idea that I take Sylvie with me—sponsor her, you know—so I hope you do not mean to spoil it by scolding her for leaving us so soon after her arrival.”