Elizabeth Mansfield (17 page)

“I suppose so,” Brandon said somewhat glumly. Then realizing that his guest was about to leave, he said quickly, “Wait, Roger. You mustn’t go yet. I wanted, by your leave, to have your suggestion concerning the story— Oh, dash it, I did it again!”

“Did what?”

“Said ’by your leave.’ I’ve been trying to break myself of the habit.”

“Why? I see nothing wrong with it.”

“Prue says I say it every time I open my mouth.”

“Does she?” Roger asked, looking at Brandon shrewdly. Then he turned to the door. “I think she exaggerates.”

“You can’t leave yet, Roger. You haven’t told me what to say to people who ask me how I came to injure my ankle.”

“Just tell them what you told me at first—that you fell out of the curricle.”

“But … but
you
didn’t believe me—!”

“They’ll believe you if you tell it with conviction. And who cares if they don’t? If I were you, I wouldn’t give a hang if they believed me or not.”

***

Roger walked to his mother’s lodgings slowly. Brandon’s artless story had given him much food for thought. The boy had spoken of no one but Prue. Prue seemed to occupy all his thoughts. Roger had tried repeatedly to bring Letty into the conversation, but Brandon had not seemed interested in discussing her. His embarrassment over the subject of Letty could, of course, be explained by his realization that he and Roger had been unwitting rivals for Letty’s hand, but that embarrassment did not explain his inability to stop talking about
Prue.
If Roger’s conclusions had any validity at all, Brandon was in love,
not
with his betrothed, but with her sister.

He began to recollect little signs that Prue had shown—unobtrusive glances, eyes that brightened when Brandon appeared in a doorway, overly animated flirtations with other men when his eyes were on her, and exaggerated indifference when he spoke to her—all indicating that she, too, was feeling the early pangs of love. If Brandon and Prue were, as he suspected, attracted to each other, what place had
Letty
in the situation? Was Letty about to be hurt?

The more Roger thought about the matter, the more convinced he became that Letty’s heart was not involved in her betrothal. He was not a schoolboy, and he did not believe himself to be so foolish as to have mistaken Letty’s response to his kiss or the look in her eyes whenever he came upon her unaware. He also was quite sure that she had an inexplicable but deep-seated fear of him. There was something havey-cavey about the entire business, and the more he thought about it, the more curious he became.
He had to get to the bottom of it.

When he arrived at the lodgings, he found Trebbs in the hallway, dressed for travel and surrounded by a pile of neatly packed luggage. Roger winced. “I’m afraid you’ll have to unpack again, Trebbs. We’re not leaving after all.”

Trebbs had been well schooled in the impassivity that was deemed appropriate for the demeanor of a gentleman’s man; therefore, he merely nodded, murmured a soft, “Yes, my lord,” picked up a piece of luggage, and headed for the stairs. Lady Denham, however, who chose just this moment to make an appearance, was not so schooled. She gaped.

“What is going on
now
?” she demanded. “Why are you taking that portmanteau upstairs, Trebbs?”

“His lordship has asked me to unpack, my lady,” Trebbs said with a barely noticeable quiver of disapproval in his tone. Before continuing up the stairs, he permitted himself to flick an accusing look at his lordship, who stood just inside the doorway rubbing his chin sheepishly.

Lady Denham wheeled about to face her son. “Unpack? But why?”

Roger grinned, shrugged, and walked quickly to the stairs. “I’ve decided to stay after all,” he said, and quickly started up.

“Just a minute, jackanapes. Come down here! I want an explanation,” his mother demanded.

Roger came down again. “The only explanation I can give you is that I’ve changed my mind,” he said, kissing her cheek.

“But
why
?” she insisted curiously.

“Mama,” Roger said with his most charming, winning smile, “you know you are my dearest love, so I hope you will not take offense when I tell you that I think it would be best if you permitted me to manage my own affairs from now on.”

“B-but, Roger—” she began, “you know I never—”

He placed his hand gently on her mouth. “Don’t say anything for a moment, please, and listen to me. I agreed to permit you to find a suitable lady for me to marry. That was a mistake, and it has not ended well. Oh, I don’t blame
you—
not at all! The mistake was all mine. I intend to rectify that error by taking the matter back into my own hands, as I should have done from the start. So, if you don’t mind, I’d prefer not to discuss the matter with you. I promise that, when I find a girl and she has accepted me, you will be the very first person to be told.” With that, he removed his hand.

“But Roger, my dear,” she said as soon as she regained her breath, “I only want to know—”

“Mama!” he said warningly.

“But I can tell that something’s happened. Have you found another girl already? Is that it? Just answer
that
and I promise to ask nothing else.”

“I have nothing to tell you, ma’am,” Roger said firmly. “And I want you to say nothing else but that I’m welcome to remain.”

“But, Roger—” she pleaded.

Roger frowned at her sternly. “Very well, my dear,” he said, “I shall tell Trebbs to repack and find lodgings elsewhere.” And he started up the stairs again.

“Roger—!” Lady Denham cried.

He turned. “Yes, Mama?”

She raised her hand and opened her mouth to scold, hesitated, made a little helpless gesture, and closed her mouth again. She drew in her breath and let it out in a long sigh. “Very well, my dear, you are welcome to remain,” she said, defeated.

The news had reached Bath that Charles James Fox had died, and the subject of his loss to Parliament and to England was discussed in the Pump Room, on every street, and in all the drawing rooms of the city. But the members of Lady Upsham’s domestic staff had something closer to their interests to discuss. Miss Tristle had taken Katie-from-the-kitchen under her wing! This surprising turnabout caused such endless expression of surprise and speculation that the topic drove all other matters from their conversation. All of the servants—even the butler—had felt a touch of Miss Tristle’s spleen from time to time, but none of them had had to endure the verbal slights, the frequent criticism, the constant interference, and the venomous disparagement that she had vented on poor Katie. Her sudden about-face on the subject of the rival abigail was nothing short of sensational. The death of Fox, famous though he was, had no power to drive from their minds and their tongues the subject of Miss Tristle’s change of attitude toward the girl who she had once said was an ignorant and vulgar urchin trying to encroach on her position in the domestic domain.

Ever since the morning Katie had prepared an herb wash for her toothache, Miss Tristle had begun to look upon the girl with new eyes. The wash had been surprisingly efficacious. For the first time in days, Miss Tristle had found herself free of pain, and repeated rinsings with Katie’s concoction had virtually cured the problem. She began to feel a new respect for Katie. She suddenly began to see the native intelligence and shrewdness that lay beneath Katie’s unpolished surface. Everything Katie said made good sense, and she had somehow acquired an astonishing fund of interesting and useful information on all sorts of subjects. Miss Tristle was impressed. Grudgingly at first, but soon more readily, she began to ask the girl’s opinion on matters she would never have deigned to ask before. Did Katie prefer the fichu or a Norwich shawl for Madam’s plum-colored evening dress? Did the London ladies still lean toward tight curls hanging over their ears for daytime wear? Could Katie recommend a recipe for removing freckles? For all these, Katie had a ready—and usually original and sensible—answer.

By the time three days of this testing had passed, Miss Tristle had been won over. She made what was, for her, an amazing condescension—she invited Katie to spend the evening in her room so that they both could do their mending while enjoying a companiable coz together. Since it was much discussed among the servants that Miss Tristle’s room was one of the largest and best lit of the servants’ rooms and that she kept it well supplied with tea, cakes, and sherry, Katie readily accepted. The evening proved to be a great success. The two abigails discovered that they each had something to teach the other—Katie could teach Miss Tristle all manner of recipes for medications and cosmetic lotions (useful secrets she had learned from her many relatives in service) and Miss Tristle could teach Katie the rules of proper speech. They discovered, too, a shared interest in the strange and ever-fascinating doings of the
ton,
and when the educational part of the conversation had begun to pall, they turned to gossip.

Here, too, Miss Tristle found Katie surprisingly knowing. Her retentive memory stored away such interesting tidbits as the number of husbands that Lady Hester Houghton had managed to acquire before she passed away, the name of the fancy piece currently under the protection of the Marquis of Atherton,
and the exact cost of the jeweled pendant the prince had presented to Princess Caroline when he married her. In fact, Miss Tristle could rarely offer a juicy morsel that Katie did not already know.

However, she did manage to do so once or twice. One bit of news in particular seemed to be of great interest to Katie. Miss Tristle said she had heard that the elegant, vacant house on the Paragon had been let to a lady from London.

“Really?” Katie asked. “And who might she be?”

“I think Mrs. Besterbent said the name was Brownell,” Miss Tristle said, knotting her thread and cutting it off with her teeth.

Katie eyed Miss Tristle with interest. “Brownell? Not Mrs.
Kitty
Brownell?”

Miss Tristle looked up with arched eyebrows. “Well, yes, I believe that was the very name. Why? Do you know of the lady?”

“Blimey if I don’t,” Katie said darkly. “I’d go bail that this means there’s trouble brewin’.”

“You don’t say,” Miss Tristle said eagerly, leaning forward with her mouth agape. “Why? Who is she?”

“I don’t like bein’ a chaffer-mouth, so I best not say nothin’. However, I don’t think nobody what knows ’er’ll be glad she come’d.”

“Came, my dear,
came,
” Miss Tristle corrected condescendingly.

“Oh, is she ’ere a’ready?” Katie asked.

Miss Tristle was not gifted with a sense of humor, and so she merely looked at Katie with a confused expression. “No, I don’t think so,” she answered seriously. “Mrs. Besterbent said she’s not due to arrive for yet a fortnight.”

Katie leaned her elbows on the petticoat she had been trying to mend and propped her chin in her hands. “It queers me what ’er lay is,” she muttered thoughtfully.

“I don’t know what you’re saying with those dreadful street words,” Miss Tristle said testily, bursting with curiosity about Mrs. Brownell’s identity but too proud to ask, “but you’re making a mess of that petticoat. Here, give it to me. I’ll finish it for you.”

Katie, who had a distinct distaste and lack of talent for sewing fine stitches, gave over the petticoat with alacrity. “I’m only puzzlin’ over what she’s comin’ ’ere for,” she explained.

“Well, I can’t help you, since I never heard of the lady.”

“Kitty Brownell ain’t no more lady ’n me! Less, in fact,” Katie declared with disgust. “I’ll tell you ’oo she is if you promise not to tattle it about.”

“I can keep my mouth shut as well as you,” Miss Tristle declared with an offended sniff.

“Then keep this tight under y’r bonnet,” Katie said dramatically. “Mrs. Brownell is none other than Lord Denham’s game pullet.”

Miss Tristle’s busy needle stopped. “You don’t mean—?” she asked, aghast.

“Yes, I do. She’s ’is bit o’ muslin, ’is doxie, ’is
ladybird
!”

“No!” breathed Miss Tristle in popeyed fashion. “How shocking!”

“So it is,” Katie agreed. “I’d give a yellow-boy to get wind of ’er game.”

The two lapsed into silence, absorbed in contemplation of the problem, but since no solution presented itself to either one, they put the question aside. A fortnight would soon pass, they told themselves, and then they would see what they would see.

***

Unaware of the impending calamity about to descend upon their lives with the arrival of Mrs. Brownell, the Glendenning sisters were making preparations to attend a small dinner party arranged by Mrs. Peake to cheer her housebound son. Mrs. Peake’s guest list was small and select. She had invited Lady Upsham and her nieces, Lady Denham and Roger, and a Mr. Eberly, a wealthy gentleman who had been associated with her husband in some business ventures and who now resided in one of the elegant apartments in Bathwick.

Letty had dressed early on the afternoon of the dinner party and then went to her sister’s room to see if she could be of assistance to Prue. She found her sister in a state of high-strung nervousness, pulling off a gown with angry impatience. Katie stood beside her with at least half-a-dozen discarded gowns thrown over her arm. Katie greeted Letty with relief. “I’m so glad you come’d …
came,
Miss Letty. This sister o’ yours can’t make up ’er mind what to wear.”

“Everything this goosecap of an abigail has brought me is too … too garish!” Prue burst out, tossing the dress she had just removed at Katie crossly.

“Garish!” Letty said in bewildered amusement. “Is this the same Prue who said to me not long ago that it is better to be stared at than ignored?”

“Did I say that? Well, never mind. Tonight I want to look … subdued.”

“Subdued? Whatever for? You couldn’t look subdued with that hair of yours if you were dressed in mourning,” her sister told her flatly. “Here, Katie, let me see what you have there.”

“I told ’er this ’ere rose-colored one is bang up to the mark,” Katie suggested.

“No!” Prue shouted, grimacing at Katie. “It makes my hair look too glaringly red.”