Death and the Cyprian Society (6 page)

The day had progressed to that hour of the afternoon when one should either find employment at some useful task or take a nap if one is not to feel the sadness that settles briefly over everything when one is alone. In her quiet drawing room, Arabella was seized on a sudden by the notion that the world had abandoned her. Feben and Amy had gone home, Frank Dysart had returned to work, Belinda was in Scotland, and Mr. Kendrick had fled from her to the other side of the world. Arabella was a woman rich in friends, but most of these were males. The London season was in full swing, and men of rank were currently in high demand at a never-ending round of parties, fetes, balls, and regattas. Additionally, the part of her brain that found solutions to problems like this one seemed to have gone numb; she could only think of a single person whom she could call on to relieve her loneliness, and he was gone.

But what was she doing? If there was one thing Arabella despised . . . well, there was not; there were any number of things. Self-pity was certainly among them, though. So she squared her shoulders, helped herself to a cigar from the humidor on the mantel, fetched a bottle and a glass from the dining room, and went downstairs to retrieve her fishing pole from behind the kitchen door.

Out in the garden, surrounded by restful greenery and serenaded by the brook, Arabella sat upon the grass and poured herself some claret. Then, with a sigh, she cast her line upon the waters.

Nature is the best smoother of ruffled human feathers, and it seemed to be working on birds’ feathers, too, if their cheerful songs were any indication. But Arabella recalled that avian songs, which sound so joyful to the human ear, weren’t really happy at all; were, in fact, hostile territorial challenges.

She wondered what the bird calls were like on Puka-Puka, and memories of Reverend Kendrick played through her mind as she leaned against a tree, smoking and considering. If he were here now, Mr. Kendrick would find a hundred ways to help her with the case: running errands, following up leads, offering suggestions. But Kendrick had renounced her. Once, he had spoken to Arabella of marriage, in a roundabout way. Now she was left to discover her fate alone. But she could not have accepted his proposal, even if she had wanted to: Kendrick belonged to the church, and she was a glittering courtesan in the world’s most glamorous city, with many good earning years still ahead of her. So she had toyed with him. She needn’t have done that, but she had—taking his devotion for granted, and even finding it irritating at times. In Italy, for instance, she had . . . she had been monstrous. Obliging him to fetch and carry for her, and making him stay behind to look after Charles, whilst she and Belinda had feasted, and . . . and . . . enjoyed themselves with . . . others. Once Arabella had even tried to send Kendrick away on a frivolous errand so that she might be alone with Lord Byron. And he had seen through her.

This brief session of introspection acted upon Arabella like a mirror, reflecting her despicable behavior in all its dreadful colors. She was heartily ashamed of herself. John Kendrick would have died for her, and nearly had done, once. Yet she had been . . . not oblivious, for then she should not have been at fault. No, Arabella had been arrogant, vain; heedless to the point of brutishness.

Then had come the regent’s party, where he had approached her in disguise, and, ignorant of his true identity, she had looked into his eyes and felt her heart turn over. Why had she only been able to really
see
him when she completely failed to recognize him? Was she put off by his ecclesiastical garb? But he did not wear that all the time. Was she too frightened to face her own feelings? No, she decided, it wasn’t that, but Mr. Kendrick possessed one of those romantic natures that becomes quiet and moon-eyed in the presence of the beloved. And Arabella, who preferred ardent, assertive men, had consequently considered him to be . . . well, insufficiently stimulating.

And she had been wrong. Though confounded by his emotions, he was actually—she saw now—dashing, considerate, supportive, and kind. He was also well read, and had a sense of humor . . . not a highly developed one, it was true, but no one was perfect. Arabella recalled how he had fought with a sword to rescue her from her abductors, how he had saved her fortune from annihilation at the regent’s gaming table, and how he had read aloud to her from Suetonius and Herodotus when she was peevish, calling her attention to their wonderfully detailed stylings. Mr. Kendrick had invented the fascinating pastime of composing farewell letters from doomed persons in early historical periods, writing as though he were truly of the time. And then, when the idea created a sensation at her salons, he had allowed Arabella to take the credit for it. Mr. Kendrick, she now recalled, had even risked his chastity, consenting to a tête-à-tête with a madwoman bent on seduction, just to obtain information that Arabella wanted.

Once again she recalled that sublime moment, when she had looked deep into his eyes without knowing who he was, and had felt stirred to the roots of her being. But Kendrick had given her up as a bad job at last, and had moved on with his life. Perhaps
that
was why Arabella felt as though she had missed her happiness by inches: No one had ever walked away from her before.

She ground her cigar butt angrily into the grass, gathered up the bottle, the wineglass, and the fishing pole and stumped off back to the house.

There would be no need to dress for dinner, of course, because she would be dining alone. Alone . . . alone . . . the word ran through her mind like a dirge. But actually it was just as well that she had no engagements, because Eddie was here now.

Arabella filled a fresh water carafe and took it upstairs to the sickroom. She placed it on the nightstand, and had just tiptoed out again when Fielding came puffing up the stairs.

“Mr. Charles is here, ma’am! I asked him to wait in the liberry, but I’m afraid he’s gone an’ went into the dining room!”

“Really? How extraordinary!”

Arabella went to see for herself, because, as far as she knew, her brother had never clapped eyes on Eddie. But here he was now, come to meet his little child at last, and no doubt made wretched with remorse over his callous dereliction, even as Arabella was made over her treatment of Mr. Kendrick. Wasn’t it wonderful the way people could change? How they could suddenly see their past conduct and vow, henceforth, to atone for a lifetime of neglect?

“Hello, Charles,” she said. “It was good of you to come. Eddie is asleep just now, but I think if she knew you were here, she would want you to wake her.”

“Who?” asked Charles. His voice sounded hollow with indifference, but then Arabella saw that he was on his knees in front of her liquor cabinet, and had answered her with his head buried inside it.

Reassured, she ventured again. “I assume you have come to visit Edwardina. She is out of danger, I am happy to say, and you may go up to see her, if you like.”

“See her?” said Charles, standing up with a bottle in each hand. “Oh, I don’t think I will, you know; there is still apt to be some danger of contagion.”

Now Arabella perceived that he had a pal with him, who stood in the shadows holding a large box, to which Charles added the latest two bottles.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“What does it look like? I’m weeding your liquor cabinet. The boys and me have decided to have ourselves a reg’lar smash-up tonight, and I’m providin’ the smash!”

“With
my
liquor?”

“Why not? It’s a cinch we haven’t got any ourselves! There, Bumpy; that’ll do us for starters. Now, morris off to Benson’s, and I’ll look in around ten.”

“Right-ho!” said Bumpy, who was, in fact, the disinherited son of Arabella’s architect. “Pleasure to see you, Miss Beaumont!”

And he awkwardly tried to tip his hat, but with his hands full of liquor box, it just wasn’t possible.

“I wish I could say the same, Mr. Soane,” Arabella replied coldly. “But as I have made it clear that you are not welcome in this house, you would hardly believe me. Fielding, please escort this person to the door at once.”

“Yes, miss. Sorry, miss; I couldn’t see who it was, with his face hid behind them box flaps.”

“That’s all right, Fielding. Just get him out now, if you please.”

“She doesn’t have to,” said Charles, bending down to brush off the knees of his breeches. “Bumpy was leaving anyway.”

He regarded his sister warily for a few moments, and she glared back at him, ready for anything. “Well,” he said at last, slapping his chest with open palms. “I don’t hold much with fancy French cooking, as you know. But since I’m here, I suppose I may as well stay to supper.”

Over their meal, Arabella acquainted Charles with the circumstances of her pecuniary predicament. Not that she expected any help or sympathy from that quarter; her brother always gambled away any money he himself could manage to get hold of, and was not interested in helping other people. But he was a living, breathing dining companion, and Arabella felt that she either had to complain to someone or go mad.

“So!” he said, when she had finished her tale of woe. “ ‘Cunny’ Worthington’s being blackmailed, is she? I am not surprised.”

“You are not supposed to know that, Charles, so please don’t go bruiting it about at your club, or wherever you go to bruit these days. Anyway, what do you mean, you’re ‘not surprised’? Why aren’t you?”

“Why aren’t I? Didn’t I apprehend Miss Round Heels with my own goggles, dancing the mattress jig with Lady Ribbonhat’s footman?”

“You mean, you
saw
her?”

“Me and half-half a dozen other coves!” (Arabella mentally did the arithmetic for this and decided that he meant “three.”)

“Where were you?”

“Haven’t the foggiest. All of us were very much the worse for wear. I just remember Snoodles gathering everybody together at the club and herding us somewhere like so many goats.” Charles wiped the sauce from his mouth. “Turned out to be a peep shew! A cove and a mort going at it in a back room, and we looking down on them from above, through peepholes! Ha! I nearly laughed out loud when I realized I’d seen Cunny’s cunny! It was a most instructive quarter of an hour, I must say—her enthusiasm more than compensates for her want of decorum.”

Arabella was livid.

“Do you mean to say you
watched
Constance do the four-legged frolic?”

“Yes. Isn’t that what I’ve just been—”

“You
stood
there, with your chums, and watched her play hide the bone,
without paying her?!”

“I expect Snoodles paid something to somebody. Cunny probably got her cut, all right. Besides,” he added, “I didn’t even realize it
was
her, till it was all over.”

“And why was that?”

“Well, she hadn’t any clothes on during the performance, and all naked women look alike, you know, more or less. Besides, the light was dim.” He paused to take a sip from his glass. “But when she was halfway dressed again, she started complaining that her partner’d stained her green-and-purple-peau-de-soie-slipper-with-silver-ribbons-and-charming-gold- embroidered-fleur-de-lis-toe-decoration. She spoke in a particular sort of gobbling fashion, the way a turkey would, were it suddenly granted the gift of human speech. ‘Hello,’ says I to meself. ‘I know that moon-eyed hen! Either that’s Cunny Worthington, or I’m a nanny house gnarler!’ Then when they’d finished dressing and I saw the cove in his livery, I recognized him as well! What a lark! ’Twas Lady Ribbonhat’s fart catcher!”

“Well, well!” said Arabella. “What a sad pack of cads! I am certain poor Constance had no idea you idiots were up there, and now one of your number seems to be blackmailing her!”

“What makes you think it was one of us?”

“The blackmailer makes reference to Constance’s tryst with the footman.”

“Good luck to him, then, if he has no other proof than his own eyes!”

“He claims to have their love letters, also.”

“Bell,” said Charles, spearing a potato, “how could one of
us
have got hold of her love letters?”

“That remains to be seen,” said Arabella. “I want you to give me the names of everyone who attended that performance!”

“Sorry; no can do. Clubmen don’t rat on one another!”

“Oh, don’t they? Well, you had better think again, Mr. Rat! You have already told more than you ought, and there is cheese all over your whiskers! If you are not forthcoming with those names, I shall go round to your ‘gentlemen only’ club, force my way in, and announce your betrayal to one and all before they can gather their feeble wits together to eject me!”

Charles paled. “You wouldn’t do that!”

“No? Would you care to test that hypothesis?”

“Oh, very well, then: Snoodles, Bumpy, and Arsy-Varsey.”

“Thank you,” said Arabella.

“Don’t mention it. You know,” he said, spooning up a second liberal helping from the serving dish, “these little nobbly things in here are awful good! What are they?”

“Snails,” said Arabella.

Charles grabbed his throat and retched, before stumbling to his feet and knocking over his chair. Fielding stepped adroitly aside from the doorway as he lunged out of the dining room, and both she and Arabella subsequently heard the unlovely sounds of him being sick out the library window.

“Waste of a good dinner, that,” Arabella remarked.

“Yes, miss,” replied Fielding. “Cook will be furious!”

“Let’s not tell her, then.”