Elizabeth Mansfield (11 page)

Canfield, meanwhile, was puzzled at Miss Branscombe’s sudden awkwardness and withdrawal. A few minutes before, out in the drawing room, she’d been warm and delightful. What had happened to transform a charming girl into this shy, distant creature?

It was then that he noticed Tris and Julie exchanging looks. It struck him that the glances were familiar and significant, the exchanges of two people who were intimately connected. The quality of those looks surprised him.
Did the dragon realty tell the truth?
he asked himself.
Does the girl truly love Tris?

The answer to the question interested him greatly, though he didn’t quite know why. After all, it was not really a matter of concern to him. Although he’d permitted Julie’s mother to believe he was interested in courting the girl, it was very far from the truth. He’d only said it as a weapon in the battle of wills between himself and Lady Branscombe. True, he’d found her daughter a lovely, taking young woman, and he was sincere in his determination to dance with her at the next opportunity, but that was as far as he intended to go. If and when he should decide to take a wife (and despite what he’d said to the dragon, he was not at all ready for such a change in his life), there were a number of young ladies in London who had prior—and stronger—claims on his attentions. He had not the least interest in courting Miss Juliet Branscombe.

Nevertheless, he had to admit there was something fascinating about the girl. Her character was quirky, unexpected, unique. He couldn’t quite fit all the pieces together. She was a riddle he was drawn to solve. That was why he found himself watching her and Tris surreptitiously during the remainder of the meal. By the time the ladies rose from the table, he’d decided that Julie was indeed in love with her childhood companion. The way her eyes kept seeking his, with an expression that seemed to be asking for his approval, put the matter beyond any doubt.

By the time the gentlemen had finished their brandies and joined the ladies in the drawing room, the chairs had been set up in rows facing a long, narrow pianoforte that had been rolled or dragged to the center of the room. Sir William, who was evidently born to act the role of master of the revels, stepped forward, cleared his throat and announced the first selection: the ballad “She Wore a Wreath of Roses,” to be snug by Miss Elinor Severn, accompanied on the pianoforte by Miss Juliet Branscombe. The conversation stilled, the two young ladies took their places, Miss Branscombe played a brief introduction, and Miss Severn began to sing. She had a very sweet voice only slightly marred by a tremulous vibrato, but the vibrations gave her performance an emotional quality that perfectly suited the sentimental lyrics. When she finished, she was so loudly applauded that she was obliged to agree to an encore. After a quick consultation with her accompanist, she sang a throbbing rendition of “Cherry Ripe.” This too was very well received. Her cheeks glowed pink as the applause accompanied her all the way back to her seat. Miss Branscombe, meanwhile, slipped back into her own seat quite unnoticed—except by Peter, who thought she’d played very well (and incidentally had looked extraordinarily lovely perched on the piano stool with her rose-colored silk skirt spread out about her like flower petals, and the light from the chandelier haloing her hair) and who was irked that her performance had not been properly appreciated.

Sir William next announced that his own son, Ronald Kenting, would sing—a cappella—a sea chanty called “ ‘Twas in the Good Ship Rover.” Ronny clumped to the front, took a deep breath and burst forth with a rousing rendition of the song in a deep baritone that actually rattled the crystal drops in the chandelier. When he took his bow to tumultuous applause (even louder than the ovation that had greeted Miss Severn), he cast a proud glance in Julie’s direction, as if to say that if she were now sorry she’d neglected him, she had only herself to blame.

Next on the program of the musicale was a harp solo to be performed by Miss Eugenia Halloway. Two footmen came forward, rolled the long pianoforte to the side and carried in a harp. Miss Halloway, so tall and gaunt that she’d developed a severe stoop, rose from her chair and came modestly forward, her shoulders hunched as if to protect her face from being seen. Just as she took her seat, however, there was a sound from the back of the room. It was Livesey, the butler, clearing his throat. “Edward Lord Smallwood and the Honorable Cleopatra Smallwood,” he announced awkwardly.

In swept Cleo Smallwood, head high, bonnet feathers bobbing and a stylish velvet cape fluttering behind her. She was followed by her tight-lipped, red-faced father. But when they saw the room filled with guests, they both stopped in their tracks, eyes widening in amazement. “Oh!” Cleo gasped. “I didn’t expect—”

“Cleo!
”
Tris cried, leaping to his feet.

Her outstretched hand flew to her breast, and she took two steps backward. “Good heavens, I didn’t know... ! Oh, dear! Please... excuse us!” She swung about, grasped her father’s arm and headed for the door. “Dash it, man,” she muttered to the butler as she went by him, “why didn’t you tell us a party was in progress?”

Livesey, the butler, stiffened in offense. Not only was he unaccustomed to being spoken to in that tone, but he’d tried his best to tell the visitors that there was a party going on. The girl had demanded to be announced, and when he’d tried to object, she’d ordered him to hold his tongue and do as he was told. Angry as he was by her unjustified scold, however, he was trained not to show his feelings. His furious sense of offense showed itself only in an almost imperceptible spark in his eyes. “Sorry, madam” was all he said.

But Lord Smallwood didn’t like his daughter’s scold either. “The fellow didn’t tell you,” he muttered as soon as they’d crossed the threshold, “because you never gave him a chance. I
told
you not to insist on being shown in—”

But at that moment Tris came hurrying out. “Cleo, wait! It’s all right. It’s only an informal musicale. Do come back.”

“No, no, I wouldn’t dream of intruding,” she said. “It was dreadful of us to barge in on you without warning.”

“Yes,” her father muttered dryly, “it’s about time you realized that.”

“No, please!” Tris motioned for Livesey to take her cape. “You’re not barging in. I’m delighted to see you... both.”

“That is kind of you to say, Tris,” Cleo said, beginning to regain her equilibrium. “You are a true gentleman, and I am a ... a virago.”

Tris gave a snort of laughter. “Now, Cleo, really—!”

“I suppose I ought to explain,” she went on. “Papa and I are on our way to... er... Scotland, and we stopped at the inn in Amberford—what was the name of it, Papa? The Pheasant, wasn’t it?”

“The Peacock?” Tris offered.

She treated him to a brilliant smile. “Yes, of course, the Peacock. It was there we learned that Enders Hall was so very close by, and I remembered that you’d once said that if ever I should be in the neighborhood—”

“Of
course
you should have called on us!” came a new voice. It was Lady Phyllis crossing the threshold. Just then the rippling sounds of the harp commenced from within, and she quickly closed the door behind her. Then she crossed to the newcomers and put out her hand. “Any friends of Tris are always welcome here.”

Tris threw her a grateful glance before making the introductions. “Lord Smallwood, Cleo, this is my mother.”

Lord Smallwood stepped forward and bowed over her hand. “How do you do, ma’am. You are most kind to welcome us, but it is unforgivable for us to have intruded at such a time.”

“Not at all,” Lady Phyllis assured him. “I’m delighted to meet Tris’s London friends. I hope you intended to spend some time here with us.”

“We wouldn’t dream of putting you out,” the embarrassed gentleman murmured.

“You aren’t putting us out at all,” Tris said earnestly. “In fact I insist that you spend some time here with us before you proceed on your travels. We both insist, don’t we, Mama?”

If Phyllis had any qualms, she hid them well. “Of course we insist. I shall have Livesey go down for your bags and establish you in adjoining guest bedrooms.”

“That is most generous of you, my lady,” Cleo said, bestowing her dazzling smile on her hostess. “We accept with pleasure, don’t we, Papa?”

The white-haired fellow gave a helpless shrug and surrendered his hat and greatcoat to the butler. Lady Phyllis, sensing his reluctance and shrewdly guessing that he’d been coerced into this escapade, felt an immediate rush of sympathy for him. “Please give no further thought to the manner of your arrival,” she assured him. “The only matter for concern is to see to your needs. Do you wish to rest after your journey? Or shall I arrange for you to have dinner? Or, if you’d prefer, you can join us for the rest of the musicale. There will be a light supper served afterwards.”

“The musicale, of course,” Cleo said at once, and then, in an afterthought, added, “if Papa agrees.”

The dignified gentleman shrugged his agreement. Lady Phyllis took his arm. “You will stay, I hope,” she said warmly as she opened the door. She urged him into the drawing room, where Miss Halloway, her head bent and her tightly curled forelock plastered against her forehead, which was wet from her exertions, was still plucking the strings of the harp with impressive enthusiasm. Tris and Cleo followed his mother in. Tris settled Cleo onto his chair, and Phyllis resumed her own. Two footmen appeared almost at once with chairs for the two men. All this was done so silently that Miss Halloway was not distracted. A few heads did turn to take another peep at the new arrivals, but the musicale continued without further interruption.

After two encores by Miss Halloway, and another sea chanty by Ronny Kenting, Sir William announced that the musicale was over. The guests rose and began to mill about. Lady Phyllis led the two late arrivals round the room and introduced them. Lord Smallwood responded to each greeting with monosyllables, but Cleo was soon completely at home, exchanging banter, laughing, and charming every gentleman in the room.

As the entire party drifted in pairs or groups to the morning room, where a buffet of light delicacies had been set up, the young lady from London was being observed with interest by several pairs of eyes. One of the observers was Julie Branscombe, who—after studying Cleo’s carriage, her curly coiffure and the easy way she spoke to everyone she met—found her to be just as Tris had described: graceful, spontaneous and self-assured.
Good for you, Tris,
she thought.

Lord Canfield was another observer. He not only closely examined the new arrival, but he watched Julie watching her. He concluded that Miss Branscombe was in trouble. Cleo Smallwood was a beautiful, glib sophisticate, talented at flirtation. He’d seen the type before. If she wanted Tris Enders for herself, she would ride over the shy Branscombe chit like a trained racehorse over a kitten. He felt quite sorry for the unobtrusively lovely Juliet.

But the keenest observer of the new arrival was Lady Branscombe. As soon as she could, she pulled Phyllis aside. “Is that young woman Tris’s London paramour?” she asked bluntly.

“Don’t be silly,” Phyllis whispered. “She’s a very proper sort of girl. Her father’s a baron.”

“Hummmph!” grunted Madge, frowning. “That makes matters worse.”

“Why do you say that?” Phyllis asked, feeling a sudden clench in her chest.

“Why do you think?” Madge snapped. “She’s a beauty, and she’s very sure of herself. Tris is evidently besotted. If she’s of good family, we can have nothing at all to object to, should he decide to offer for her.”

Phyllis’s optimistic nature vied in her chest with a growing feeling of panic. “Yes, she
is
a beauty, I won’t deny that,” she said, her voice quavering, “but it’s too soon to conclude that Tris is besotted, isn’t it?”

“Is it? Take a look at him. He’s been at her elbow ever since she arrived, positively slavering over her. If he paid that sort of attention to Julie, I’d be in alt.”

“Oh, dear,” murmured Phyllis miserably, “whatever shall we do?”

“Get rid of her,” Madge answered without a moment’s hesitation. “Get rid of her at once.”

16

Getting rid of Cleo Smallwood proved to be no easy task. For one thing, Tris made the girl promise (without much difficulty) to stay at least a week. For another, Lady Phyllis could not think of a way to hasten her departure without causing the sensitive, quiet Lord Smallwood to be humiliated, for he would surely sense—no matter how subtle her hints—that she was trying to push them on their way. “Besides,” she said to Madge as she walked with her to the property line after a brief visit, “if Tris is truly besotted, getting rid of the girl will only cause him to follow her to London. We’d then be in a worse case than we are now.”

By this time, the Smallwoods were in their third day of what Madge now realized would be an extended stay. “I don’t see how matters can possibly be worse,” she said glumly.

“I still have hope, as long as Tris is here near Julie,” Phyllis said optimistically. “Perhaps, if Miss Smallwood stays long enough, he’ll tire of her and discover for himself how superior our Julie is.”

“If
I
haven’t discovered that Julie is in any way superior to the Smallwood creature,” Madge muttered as she took herself off through a much used gap in the hedge, “I don’t see how Tris will.”

“You are an unnatural mother,” Phyllis called after her. “I can think of a dozen ways.”