Intermezzo (16 page)

Late that evening, Rebecka searched out a sequestered Lord Waterston in the library and solemnly announced her absolute and irrevocable dislike of dancing lessons.

“Really, Uncle Charles, I cannot like spending my time on such
mindless
little farradiddles.”

“Every young woman must learn to dance.”

“Adela had not.”

“She should have, Becka.”

“Well, she is now, you know. She is learning to dance with a vengeance.”

“Surely, Becka, you do not resent Adela’s enjoying her dancing lessons.”

“Of course not, I don’t truly
resent
it. I just do not like that man-milliner, M. De La Courte, always mincing about billing and cooing and making a cake of himself over her dovelike eyes and her angelic talents and such like. It is all
excessively
silly.” And then without further explanation Rebecka began to sob. “Uncle Charles, you just
will
not understand.”

“Understand what?”

“I love Adela and I don’t want to lose her to some—to some mincing caper merchant.”

“Hush, child, surely, if you love your cousin Adela, you would want her to be happy?” his lordship asked with some difficulty.

“Certainly I want her to be happy, but how can she be happy with him? He is so self-important, so precise, so charming. How can Adela love him? I have always distrusted charming people. What is she to do? Spend the rest of her life playing piano so that he can go tripping around the floor with horrid little students? Uncle Charles, Adela would be far more happy staying here with us.”

Charles Waterston held the child and soothed her. He told her again and again that he was sure matters had not progressed so far while at the same time repeatedly assuring Becka that Adela was quite capable of deciding her own fate.

Wednesday afternoon, armed with two new gowns and the prospect of the opera with the divine diva Catalani, Adela was in the best of spirits. She had dressed in her new flowered muslin and was brushing her hair to the strains of a hummed Mozart minuet as she awaited what she took to be the next in a series of lessons from M. De La Courte. Truly the courtship game was not all that difficult—a few effusive compliments followed by downcast eyes, half-smiles, and demure responses all to the tempo of the dance.

As Adela preened herself before the pier glass, Monsieur, who had come early, was seated with his lordship in the library—Waterston sat behind the desk and his dancing master across from him. M. De La Courte, traditional in his thinking, felt that before he could properly pay his respects to Miss Trowle he would have to clear the matter with her father or guardian. His lordship, although, strictly speaking, neither father nor guardian was, in M. De La Courte’s eyes, a fair enough approximation of each. Moreover, Charles Henry Beaumont was one of the most respected patrons in the artistic life of the ton and it would not do to alienate someone of his influence.

Louis De La Courte proceeded smugly, satisfied in his own opinion of himself and simultaneously secure in the belief that he was offering to relieve Lord Waterston of an unwanted responsibility.

While Monsieur piously recited his various noble connections, his modest prospects, his honorable intentions, and so on, Waterston listened in silence. M. De La Courte saw no discernible change in his lordship’s expression and so he could not have known the extent of the revulsion Waterston was experiencing as he looked into the groomed vapid countenance of the dancing master.

“Monsieur De La Courte, you must understand that I have absolutely no jurisdiction over the affairs of Miss Trowle. Whether or not she will have you is entirely a matter for the two of you to decide and I suggest that you address her on the matter. It is no concern of mine.”

“But of course, I shall, my lord. I have, you must know, the greatest respect and affection for Miss Trowle. I have come to you only because of that respect. I know of course there will be no dowry...” At that precise moment, Charles Beaumont could have easily strangled the “bloody little sanctimonious fop” seated across the desk. Instead, for reasons he could not himself fathom, he felt impelled to interrupt, “I believe you are misinformed, Monsieur. Miss Trowle’s godfather, my late uncle Horace, has left her an income of two hundred pounds per annum to be administered by myself and to commence on the occasion of her marriage.” Waterston felt quite certain that the lawyers could be found to substantiate this thoroughly bogus claim. Then, as he saw the gleam of cupidity in Monsieur’s so expressive eyes, Waterston wondered how much, if conscience permitted, it would take to buy the blighter off entirely. Driving such uncharitable thoughts from his mind, he contented himself with suggesting that whatever the outcome of M. De La Courte’s interview with the young lady, in all propriety, it would appear that the dancing lessons should be terminated.

His lordship excused the dancing master, ordered a bottle of unpalatable scotch from Soames, almost unheard of at any time and completely out of the question in the afternoon, and closing the register to the music room, he sat in silence drinking and waiting an eternity for the dancing lesson to end.

Adela, totally unaware of the seriousness of the situation, was intent on practicing the minuet with Monsieur and exchanging pleasantries on the state of the new romantic music. Within twenty minutes, however, she noticed that Monsieur was not his usual lightly gallant self. On the contrary, he seemed oppressed by some strong emotion and since strong emotion of any sort seemed to be inconsistent, almost comical, in a fop, she excused Rebecka and, turning to the dancing master, no longer Adela the student flirt but now plain Miss Trowle, she asked quite naturally whether Monsieur, as he did not seem to be quite well, would like to end the class.

M. De La Courte, grasping the opportunity and reading into the suggestion rather more than was intended, clutched Adela in his arms and then fell to his knees.

“No, mademoiselle, I am not well. I am sick for love—I am in a transport of the grand passion. I adore you.”

Adela, who felt as if she had just been embraced by a toad, was momentarily distracted. She had not expected the lessons in courtship to progress quite so
quickly.
Was the man gone mad? And so she remained silent, attempting furiously to decipher what she took to be an advanced stage of a harmless flirtation.

Monsieur, quite naturally interpreting her silence as encouragement, continued, “
Mon petit oiseau,
will you do me the inestimable honor of becoming my wife?”

“Your wife, Monseiur?”

“
Mais oui.
We could make such a life together. We are similar of birth—aristocrats in a world of baboons, gentle people in a world of horse-mad mushrooms. We make music, we dance, we make a family. I know it is not a life of luxury I can offer you, but I have my skill and you have yours. We can dance and play for the barbarians and they will pay us well. And of course we will have your two hundred pounds per annum and the patronage of your so distinguished cousin.”

Clearly the man was confused, but just as clearly he was in the process of making Adela her first offer in form. Adela braced herself to deliver an answer. “Dear Monsieur De La Courte, do get up, please. It is most awkward conversing with someone in a kneeling position.” Kissing her hand, he rose and attempted again to embrace her.

“No, no, wait a moment, Monsieur. We must
talk
a moment.” Adela was flustered, very flustered—this man-woman game could become very unpleasant. It must be ended. Gathering her small self together, she stood very straight, smiled softly, and said in her best schoolgirl voice, “You have done me great honor and I shall always remember you with kindness and affection, but I simply am not prepared for marriage. I do not think I shall ever be. Please try to understand, Monsieur, that although I have the greatest respect for you, I cannot agree to marry you.”

“What is this ridiculous English notion that a young girl is not prepared for marriage. But of course you are prepared for marriage or you would be in a convent, mademoiselle. I beg you to reconsider.”

A Miss Trowle, who had refused him, had become even more attractive to Monsieur and, with an income of two hundred pounds, she was quite irresistible.

“Please, Monsieur, I must ask you to leave. I repeat, I am simply not contemplating marriage.”

“Ah, I understand, you think to live comfortably under this roof but it will not suit. They will make of you a governess, a drudge to Lady Diana’s children—Lady Diana, a person with the artistic capabilities of a turtle and the face of a Madonna. You will be far more happy with me.”

This was the first argument advanced in Monsieur’s cause which
did
influence Adela. After all, she thought bitterly, why burn bridges, and so, while she gently disengaged her hands from Monsieur’s, she indicated that she would reconsider his offer, but she could not, on such short notice, determine the state of her own mind.

With a profound sigh of relief, Adela watched Monsieur De La Courte go. Still stunned, she remained standing in the room for several minutes after the dancing master had left.

As she bent to gather together her music and rewind the metronome, she heard the door open.

Slowly Adela Trowle turned to face Charles Beaumont. His face was drawn and his eyes were burning hollows. Adela looked at him carefully and then, almost calmly, she remarked, “You appear to have been drinking, my lord.”

“Not excessively, Miss Trowle.”

“Have you come to use the music room? If so, I shall be happy to leave it to you.”

“No, I have not come to use the music room except incidentally. I have come to inquire about the progress of your dancing lessons with the ever so charming Monsieur De La Courte.”

“Well, sir, I believe that I am indeed learning to dance, although I find, upon careful consideration, that it is not all that enjoyable a form of exercise.”

“Is it not, Miss Trowle? Odd, but I have found that most young ladies are uncommonly fond of dancing.”

“Perhaps, my lord, I have grown too old and set in my ways for the delights of young ladies. I have the piano and that may be all the music my constitution will bear. I do not find the formalized movements of the country dances too awfully grim; the waltz, however, is deadly dull and fraught with difficulties. I cannot seem to follow a lead. I think that, for the present, I have had more than a sufficiency of dancing lessons.”

“
I
do not find the waltz difficult, Miss Trowle.”

“I’m sure you would find many of my piano exercises difficult. We each, sir, have our talents.”

“Just so, but I cannot believe that with all these hours in the arms of the
tres gentil
disenfranchised nobleman you have not mastered the waltz.”

“Believe what you will, my lord, I cannot waltz.”

“Having invested such a prodigious amount of resources into your dancing instructions, I think I have some right to see what Monsieur has taught you. Come Miss Trowle—a waltz.”

“No, sir, I cannot.” Adela turned and ran past him from the room.

Miss Trowle retreated to her room and his lordship retreated to his club, and they were each able to avoid the other for the next two days. On Thursday, Adela braced herself to write a firm refusal to Monsieur De La Courte. She was greatly relieved when, after several drafts, she had a missive that was sufficiently formal and inoffensive. Having completed that difficult task, there remained at least one other nagging concern in Adela’s mind and so Friday morning she asked to have a few words with his lordship.

“Of course, Miss Trowle, would you kindly step into the library.”

A few moments later, seated in the library, Adela gathered together her courage, “I scarcely know where to begin, my lord. It concerns Monsieur De La Courte.”

“Are you asking my advice concerning his proposal of marriage?”

“No, of course not, sir, but might I ask if he addressed you on this matter.”

“Yes he did, Miss Trowle.”

‘Then perhaps you can explain to me, sir, how he became so misinformed about my financial affairs. He appears to believe you know, that I have an income of two hundred pounds.”

“Yes, Miss Trowle, I had meant to tell you about that. Sometime last month I was contacted by one of Horace’s attorneys. They had discovered a letter from Horace requesting that I set aside two hundred pounds per annum to commence on the occasion of your marriage. Horace’s estate reverted, for the most part, to myself as head of the family, but he did make a number of similar bequests which I have, of course, honored.”

“Why had I not heard of this bequest earlier, sir?”

“Horace was exceedingly careless—his papers are spread over half of England.”

Adela stared at Waterston for a moment and knew there was no such legacy. Suddenly she experienced a hot blast of something very like pain. Looking away from Waterston, she said, “I think you are lying, sir.”

“Lying, Miss Trowle. How so?”

“I expect you think I am green enough to believe anything. I can assure you, however, that if you wish to rid this house of me, it is not at all necessary to
buy
me a husband.”