Imprudent Lady (26 page)

They resumed their seats in the carriage, and Prudence decided to discuss what must be in both their minds, the evening at Reading. “Did you see anything of Mr. Seville in London?” she asked, to initiate the subject.

“No, but he was to call on Hettie—told her about having offered for you. I did him an injustice,” he admitted stiffly.

“But you didn't
tell
him so?"

“I am telling
you
so, that is more to the point. I behaved very badly and have been wanting to apologize."

“Yes, you did behave abominably,” she agreed. He said nothing, but firmed his resolve to reform.

Prudence thought he might now give some reason for his atrocious behaviour. Surely the reason had been jealousy, and jealousy just as surely must have been rooted in his love for her, but though she allowed him a full minute to say so, he said nothing.

“Oh, there is Sir Henry Millar,” she said, nodding and smiling to a passing acquaintance. “He is down here to rent and furnish a house for his mistress, an actress from Covent Garden. No doubt you know her—she goes by the name Yvonne duPuis, though she is actually from Cornwall. She is not here at the moment."

This coming on top of his own efforts at respectability angered Dammler. “I dislike to hear you speak so openly of these matters, Prudence. They are not things a young lady ought to discuss with a gentleman."

She was first dumbfounded, then scornful. “I have always heard a leopard does not change his spots, Dammler. Tell me now, as a world traveller, is not that true, or are you an exception to the general rule? You were not used to be so nice in your ideas of subjects suitable for discussion with a lady."

“You don't have to remind me of my past. I am trying to change..."

“Your
behaviour
or your conversation?"

“Both."

“But we writers, you know, are up to anything, as your old friend ‘Silence’ Jersey says. Come, you claim to detest hypocrisy. Confess the truth. You are bored to finders in dull Bath, and languishing to get back to the City and your Phyrne."

“I have got rid of my Phyrne."

“Wilted on you, did she?"

She could see he was reining in his temper and about ready to burst with the effort, but was in no way dismayed. “No, she was flourishing under the protection of a certain baron when I left."

“I should like to know, in case I ever have to write about it, how one goes about getting rid of a Phyrne. Is she given an annuity, or just sold outright to the highest bidder?"

“Prudence!” he said in a warning voice.

“Or was she on straight wages—so much a day, or night."

“You are not likely to require such information for anything you write, unless you have changed your style of writing a good deal."

“Ah well, who knows? Seville only offered marriage, but I may end up with a
carte blanche
in my pocket yet."

“That is
not
amusing, Prudence,” he said, a flash of anger leaping in his eyes.

Satisfied at the effect of her goading, she answered quite sweetly, “It was supposed to be."

“Well, it wasn't. Don't talk like that."

“I was under the misapprehension you held a high opinion of the world's oldest profession. Much better than wives who carry on intrigues, you said."

“You are not a wife yet."

“And not likely to be in the near future,” she returned airily. She was vastly annoyed that he did not follow up this excellent lead, but he looked quite relieved. He didn't know what degree of intimacy she had achieved with Springer, but apparently marriage was not in her mind.

“My aunt tells me you see a good deal of Ronald Springer,” he said, making it sound careless.

Piqued at his lack of saying anything more to the point than this, she answered, “Yes, we are quite back on the old footing. There is hardly a day I don't see him. In fact, we ought to be getting back. What time is it?"

“About half past chapter ten,” he replied, without looking at his watch.

She looked at him with the blankest incomprehension. “What would that be, Greenwich time?” she asked.

“Three thirty. I'll take you home."

He asked if he might bring his aunt to call the next day, and Prudence agreed. When she went into the house, she was displeased with the outing. He had intimated he was here only because of her, but made no move towards an offer. What was he up to? And there was a new stiffness, almost amounting to priggishness, in his manner, that irked her excessively. But she would take care of that!

The next day Dammler brought his cousin to visit, and after reminding them of each others’ names, he took a seat beside the Pillar. The Pillar then began her catechism, to see whether or not she had erred in coming to visit persons in rented lodgings.

“Dammler tells me you
write,"
she said to Prudence in an accusing tone, lifting the lorgnette.

“Yes ma'am I write a little—novels."

“I suppose they are
Gothic
novels."

“No, they are realistic modem novels."

“I do not read novels,” she said, and turned to Mrs. Mallow. “You have been ill, I hear."

Illness proved more acceptable than writing novels. The nature of the malady was explained, and the Countess shook her head sadly. “It Is an error to eat at inns. One should not eat when travelling."

“Lord Dammler would have found that inconvenient on his tour around the world,” Prudence remarked, becoming annoyed at this haughty tone.

“He should not have gone travelling,” she was told, as though such a corollary should have been self-evident.

“Knighton took good care of my sister,” Clarence mentioned, always wanting to be mentioning a famous name. “He is very good about making a call."

“You had Knighton,” the Countess said, nodding her head in approval. About one tenth of her chill dissipated, though nothing approaching a smile appeared on her orange cheeks.

“I always have Knighton when I am out of sorts,” Clarence told her.

“I will give you my doctor's address, here in Bath,” she offered. “Remind me, Dammler. You are fond of art, I believe, Mr. Elmtree,” she said next, having apparently had a resume of each before coming.

“Yes, I am always painting. I did the whole Chiltern family just before coming. Seven of them. I hope to get a little time in on some landscapes while I am here."

“You will want to paint Beecher Hill,” she said. “There are some nice scenes there."

Clarence stored up the name, to write in his first note to Sir Alfred that the Countess of Cleff had recommended it. “I usually do portraits, but each spring I find myself drawn outdoors to try my hand at Nature."

Lady Cleff approved of Nature. “That is wise,” she allowed. “What sort of portraits do you do?"

“Oh pretty good ones, I think, if I don't flatter myself too much. I think Dammler will tell you I paint a pretty good picture."

“Very good,” Dammler confirmed readily. “In the style of
Mona Lisa,
Cousin."

“I like that,” she declared. “There is too much of dressing people in outlandish outfits like Grecians or nymphs and sitting them in strange poses. Phillips and Romney, for instance—always rigging their people out in ridiculous costumes."

“Ho, Romney, he knew nothing of painting,” Clarence said with enthusiasm. “He is dead, you know. One ought not to speak ill of the dead, but he knew nothing of painting."

“Romney painted
me,"
the Countess informed him, her parrot's nose achieving a sharp point in disapproval.

“You shouldn't have let him near you. I daresay he gave you a sharp nose and too wide a form."

Prudence drew in a sharp breath at this telling description of their caller, and looked at the Countess in fear. She found a smile of gratification on that white and orange face. Glancing at Dammler, she thought he was unmoved, till she noticed the laughter lurking in his eyes.

“You should have Mr. Elmtree do a proper likeness of you, Cousin,” he suggested to the Dowager.

“I am past all that,” she demurred, but in no very conclusive manner.

“Nonsense,” Clarence stated firmly. “I could make you look very nice. I know just how to get that bright orange for the cheeks, and the nose would be no problem. I am quite good at a nose."

These blatant insults were accepted with a smirk, and a preening hand went to the turban on the Countess’ head. “Well, I may have another portrait done. I never thought Romney did me justice."

“Mr. Elmtree is the very one to do you justice,” Dammler said, flickering a look at Prudence, who shook her head ever so slightly in disapproval.

“I have my paints with me,” Clarence urged on the scheme. “I should be very happy to try my hand at such a challenging model."

The Countess read even this slur into a compliment, not knowing the challenge lay in her ugliness. “I shall consider it,” she decreed.

She accepted a cup of tea, and when she arose to take her leave she said, “You will call and take Miss Mallow out for a ride one day, Dammler.” She had found the persons satisfactory.

No one present, even including Clarence, saw fit to tell her he had already done so. “She will be happy to go,” was his only comment. “She works too hard.” Prudence had hardly set pen to paper since coming to Bath, and never when he was present to see it.

Dammler made no protest whatsoever, and the Countess said when leaving, “It is settled then,” very well pleased with this highhanded manner of arranging young peoples’ lives.

As the two drove home, the Countess said to Dammler, “I am happy to see you have some worthwhile friends in London. Mrs. Mallow has nothing to say, but Mr. Elmtree is quite unexceptionable, and the girl is well enough. She does just as she is bid by her uncle, and it is reassuring to see
that
in a young lady nowadays. No doubt she will settle down now that her uncle is here. She was racketing about not chaperoned as she should be, but that will come to an end."

“Yes, she has a great respect for her uncle,” the deceitful creature corroborated, without a blush.

The Countess had bid him drive out with Miss Mallow, and he intended doing so the next day, but alas his cousin had other plans for him. She was ordering new draperies for her Purple Saloon, and required his escort to the drapery shop. There was only one bolt of purple in the shop, but this by no means meant she only looked at it. She also had to consider red and blue and a dozen patterned ells before agreeing to the purple, while Dammler walked back and forth, drawing out his watch and calculating how quickly he could get her home if they left immediately. He knew he had missed his chance when they had been there an hour and a quarter. It was graphically illustrated when they at last went out into the street in time to see Prudence atop Ronald Springer's curricle. She waved to them in a friendly manner.

“My, it is Springer, with that Mallow girl,” the Countess said. “Perhaps you shouldn't take her out after all. Springer might take it amiss."

This was the very phrase to ensure that Dammler would be at her door early the next morning and so he was, only to hear that she had gone off for the day to see Blaize Castle with Springer and a group of young people.

Help came from an unexpected quarter. To pay homage to her caller, and to show off her new purple drapes, the Countess would throw a party. Dammler was permitted to ask a few people under seventy, and he was not tardy in sending a note to the Mallows and Clarence. Unfortunately, the Dowager had the inspiration of including Springer, as well, but it could not be helped. The party was scheduled for three days hence, and the only sight Dammler had of Miss Mallow in the interim was to bow to her twice across the Pump Room in the mornings; the rest of the time he was kept busy.

The party, which the Dowager called a drum, was a major event in her life, and much discussed. “It is what the rackety crew nowadays call a rout,” she explained to Dammler. “Cards and conversation for the civilized members of the party, with a small parlour given over to dancing for the savages. I shall hire a fiddle."

“And perhaps someone to play the pianoforte,” he suggested.

“No, no, Allan. It will be only a few country dances. A fiddle is what Papa always had."

“Yes, but nowadays, Cousin..."

“Fiddle!” she said with a hard stare, and a fiddle it was.

The refreshments were to be equally antiquated and austere. Orgeat, lemonade and punch were to be the beverages. Not a mention of champagne, and the food was to be a frugal luncheon with no lobster or oysters or even roasted fowl. Dammler began to perceive the drum was an appalling idea, but the invitations were out and accepted before the full meagerness of the evening's entertainment dawned on him. Decorations consisted of one palm tree rented from the floral shop, and an extra brace of candles lit in the main saloon, to show off the purple drapes.

The austerity of the whole was made more ludicrous by the degree of formality to be observed. Formal dress was called for, and she spoke of “a reception line,” to consist of the pair of them, to greet the guests as they arrived, thence to be handed over to the butler for announcing. She kept notes to help the
Bath Journal
write it up for the social column, and sent her distracted cousin on a dozen useless errands to arrange various details of the “orgy.” The only consolation Dammler could see in the scheme was that Prudence would see him in a new light—respectable, above reproach. She would see there was a serious, worthwhile side to his nature.

The great evening of the drum finally arrived. Lady Cleff decked herself out in a severe black gown, enlivened with a gray fall of Mechlin lace and a cameo for the night's frolic. Dammler took up his post beside her in the doorway of the main saloon, wearing satin breeches, a black coat, and his most dazed expression. The majority of the guests, relicts like the Dowager herself, saw nothing absurd in the proceedings, but both Springer and later Miss Mallow were stunned. Prudence gazed in wonder to see Dammler playing his part in this charade, standing at attention with his aged relative, shaking hands with doddering old crones. She remembered him smiling and debonair at the opera, at Hettie's ball, and at a hundred other gay places which existed for her only in imagination from his having mentioned them. She could hardly credit he was the same person. Formal wear being called for, she had worn a new gown of pale lilac, cut low in front, with lilacs at the bodice. Lady Cleff glared at her shoulders and lifted her lorgnette to Dammler as though to say, “What have we here?"