Lady of Spirit, A (5 page)

The Lady came into their room as they were putting the finishing touches on their toilettes before dinner.

“You have both put your hair up,” she said with approval. “You look lovely. Though I must say, it makes me feel terribly old that my Mopsies are going about in society as young ladies.”

“Would you rather we went as pickpockets?” Lizzie asked, eyes sparkling. “Because we could certainly oblige, couldn’t we, Maggie?”

“Look what happened the last time you did that,” Maggie pointed out. “You got blown up by a pocket watch.”

“True.” Lizzie’s face held the memory of that night. “Thank goodness for Tigg. If he had not held off my attackers for those few seconds, I might have been killed.”

“Yes, thank goodness for Tigg,” the Lady agreed, her face as innocent and open as a flower. “How well he looks in his uniform—and I hear nothing but good things of him from Lord Dunsmuir. Our young engineer will be first officer within five years or I’m a stumpy gumpus.”

Lizzie blushed and Maggie made the mistake of catching the Lady’s eye.

One eyebrow rose in inquiry. The jig was up.

Or it would be, if she didn’t do something. It wasn’t that Lizzie would not want to talk about Tigg with the Lady. But if there was nothing yet to talk about, it could be embarrassing if others made assumptions that were not yet true.

Besides, Lizzie had hardly even confided in her yet. If anyone were to be the first to know, it should be Maggie.

“Lady, may I have your opinion?” she said, turning to the dressing table. “Should I wear something about my neck?”

Their jewel cases did not hold much—mostly because the Lady held strong opinions about what was suitable for young ladies, and Firstwater diamonds belonged about the throats of the engaged or married. So those were safely locked up at Wilton Crescent. And Lizzie was already wearing her mother’s pearls.

“What about a bit of velvet ribbon to match your dress?” Claire asked. “Here. Put this little brooch on it and wear it choker style, as Princess Alexandra does. You know that personal adornment is not among my priorities, but there are some occasions that call for heavy artillery, and this is one of them.”

The Lady tied the ribbon and Maggie had to admit that it was just what was needed to fill the modest neckline of her cream silk dinner dress with its tawny sash and puffed sleeves. And just what she needed to screw up her confidence to the sticking point. Even the Lady cast a puzzled eye upon her as they trooped down the staircase, but she said nothing. Maggie allowed her to think that she was still recovering from the fish.

She would not carry her sorry tale to Claire and expect her to go to battle on her account—because that was certainly what would happen. No, she would muster her own artillery and engage as best she could, and only when her own resources had been exhausted would she ask for help. She had not survived the alleys of Whitechapel, the desert wastes of the Texican Territory, or the excellent aim of a villain on the roof of his castle to be defeated in the drawing rooms of Penzance, for heaven’s sake.

The Lady sailed into said drawing room as though she owned it, so Maggie, being the excellent mimic she was, did the same. With Tigg, who had been waiting by the door with Mr. Malvern, they joined their grandparents and began the introductions without delay. Mr. So-and-so. Mrs. Such-and-such. The Misses Whatsis, Baron Somebody, and Captain Barclay, who was memorable for the number of ribbons upon his chest and the size of his mutton chops. He had nice eyes, too, and called Maggie “Miss Seacombe,” though no one had vouchsafed her last name.

At last her grandparents circled to the couple drinking sherry by the fire. “Sir John Rockland, Lady Charlotte, may I introduce our guests—Lady Claire Trevelyan, of Gwynn Place in Roseland. Mr. Andrew Malvern and Lieutenant Terwilliger. Sir John is our local magistrate. And this is our granddaughter Elizabeth Seacombe, child of our daughter Elaine. And her adopted sister and companion, Margaret.”

Who, evidently, possessed no surname this time, either. Maggie dipped into a curtsey and smiled shyly at the couple, not allowing the degree to which this bothered her to show in her face. Lady Charlotte smiled back, but did not extend her hand as she had to Lady Claire and the gentlemen. Maggie knew something of the rules of precedence and how low a curtsey was to be in proportion to the rank of the person to whom one had been introduced, but she couldn’t remember whether handshakes applied in this situation if one was not yet eighteen. Or if one had no last name.

Lizzie had no such trouble. She dipped her curtsey and said, “How do you do? I’m very happy to make your acquaintance.”

“And we yours,” Lady Charlotte said. “I understand you will be with us for a visit of some days?”

“Two weeks, in fact. Then we must return to school in Munich.”

“I don’t hold with foreign schooling,” Grandfather said. “Nothing wrong with a good English education.”

“I agree,” said the Lady, “though it would mean my being divided from the girls for months at a time, since I am to begin my career with the Zeppelin Airship Works there in September. I am afraid I could not bear it.” And she smiled at both girls with such affection that Maggie’s throat closed up.

“Perhaps now that you have been reunited, and the breach in the family circle healed, you might reconsider traveling so far from your grandparents?” Lady Charlotte said to Lizzie. With a smile at Grandmother, she went on, “Demelza and I are confidantes, you see.”

“I am afraid it is too late to change our plans for this autumn,” the Lady said smoothly, “but if the girls desire it, we may certainly come to some other agreement in the future. But in any case, I believe they would prefer to finish out sixth form in Munich, where the professors know them and they have many friends. When it is time to apply to university, of course, they may make up their own minds.”

Grandmother snorted. “Girls of their age do not need to attend university, unless it is to attract the attention of gentlemen, and they had better do that under their own family’s roof.”

Maggie exchanged a glance with Lizzie, and both waited for the Lady to deal such a setdown that Grandmother would be rendered mute for a week.

But Claire merely smiled. “That would be dreadfully disappointing to the Empress of Prussia, would it not, Maggie? She was so pleased with your achievements when you were presented in June.”

In the ensuing ringing silence the butler announced, “Dinner is served.”

Tigg offered his arm to Lizzie, and when the Lady turned, she found Mr. Malvern at her elbow, ready to escort her in before someone else beat him to it. Would no one claim her as his partner? Maggie thought with a dreadful pang. Had everyone in the room noticed the lack of salient details in the introductions?

“Do be a dear and save me from Lady Charlotte,” came a voice in her ear, and Claude linked his arm with hers, practically waltzing her into the dining room. “She’s been Grandmother’s best friend since they came out of the Ark, and she terrifies me.”

“She didn’t seem so terrible,” Maggie whispered as he seated her in the middle, a comforting distance from Grandmother at one end and Grandfather at the other. “I thought she was rather nice.”

“Don’t let looks deceive you. She doesn’t believe in cakes for tea. And neither she nor Grandmere are even aware of the existence of mother’s helpers—hence the maids. Can you imagine?”

Thank heavens for Claude. Blissfully unaware of the undercurrents in the conversation that pointedly eddied around Maggie and went right over his head, he made sure that their little section of the table was the most entertaining. Tigg and Lizzie opposite joined in, and the Lady and Mr. Malvern, who possessed views so different from the majority at the table that the concealment of them became more and more hilarious, made sure that this dinner at all events, would be remembered for some time to come.

No one would contradict or dare to dress down the Lady, for fear of offending Gwynn Place, and even Mr. Whatsis had heard of Andrew Malvern, the famous engineer. In fact, by the time dinner was over and Grandmother had risen to indicate that it was time to leave the gentlemen to their port and cigars, Maggie was feeling as though her earlier fears must have been the product of an overwrought imagination—or the fish.

“Texican cigarillos,” Claude murmured as he pulled out her chair and eyed the boxes on the mantel. “Think I ought to try one?”

“I do not,” Maggie whispered back. “They are horrid things. What girl would want to kiss a man who tastes like an ash tray?”

“No danger of that here,” he said, his merriment briefly dampened by the thought of the girls of his acquaintance all on the razzle without him in Paris.

“Then consider your own health, and decline when they are offered,” she said, before following Lizzie into the drawing room.

Where the ladies, unfettered by the interference of men in their conversation, waited.

Grandmother was seated before the baroque silver service, engaged in pouring coffee. Without being asked, Maggie took cups and saucers and handed them round to the ladies arranged upon sofas and chairs, beginning with Lady Charlotte and ending with Lizzie. No one could say she had learned nothing of civility or the rules of precedence during her lessons in deportment with Mademoiselle Dupree. Trays of iced cakes followed, though it appeared that the enormous trifle taking pride of place on the sideboard was waiting for the arrival of the gentlemen.

“Thank you, Maggie,” the Lady murmured as she accepted a small pink cake on a plate. “Do not forget your own dessert while you are so thoughtfully helping others to theirs.”

“These are delicious, Mrs. Seacombe,” one of the three Misses Whatsis said, indicating her glossy round cake with a picture of a steamship in icing on the top. “How very clever of the baker. Is this one of your ships?”

“Indeed it is—the
Demelza
, named by Mr. Seacombe for me, of course. We have them specially made.”

“I shall have to tell Mama. In the spirit of being prepared, you know.”

“Oh, are you engaged to be married, Miss Penford?” Lady Charlotte asked. “I had not heard.”

Miss Penford blushed and her sister explained, “Not exactly, Lady Charlotte. Not yet. But we expect the happy news any day now.”

“It is always good to be prepared for any eventuality,” Lady Claire said. “I was just a member of my best friend’s wedding party on Friday—Emilie Fragonard. You may have read of it in the society pages. She married Lord Selwyn and they are off to the Lakes this week for their wedding tour.”

“I did read something of it,” Grandmother said. “Was that not awkward for you?”

“Why should it have been?” The Lady sipped her coffee. “Emilie will make a far happier Lady Selwyn than I should have done.”

“Our condolences on your loss,” Grandmother said in tones that could have wilted the bouquet of flowers on the mantel.

“Thank you, that is very kind. But James and I were not suited, and while his death was a blow of the most shocking sort, it has been five years and we have all rallied. Emilie and Peter will be very happy—and so will we, won’t we, girls?”

The Lady smiled at Maggie and Lizzie, while the Misses Penford looked askance at one another. “So are there marriage prospects ahead for you after such a long time, Lady Claire?” the eldest asked. “Or will you go off to Munich with a heart unencumbered and free?”

“I would not say so,” the Lady said rather primly from behind the rim of her cup.

Maggie perked up. This was news.

“Lady Claire, you cannot be reconsidering the Prussian prince’s offer,” Lizzie said with every appearance of sincerity. “What would Count von Zeppelin say if he were to lose you?”

Miss Penford swallowed her coffee the wrong way and snatched up a napkin to cover her mouth. By the time Grandmother had gone to her assistance, the moment for giving answers had passed. Maggie fetched the young lady a glass of water from the sideboard, and the latter took it gratefully.

“Would you be so kind, Margaret?” the second sister said, handing her an empty plate, and before Maggie could do a thing, Lady Charlotte had handed hers over as well.

Since there was no reason she should not clear the plates before the men came and the trifle was served in the crystal dishes arranged upon the sideboard, Maggie did so with a smile. Luckily, when droplets of coffee from someone’s saucer fell upon a bit of lace on the front of her dress, they didn’t stain the silk. She dipped a napkin in her water glass and scrubbed at it, and nearly all of it came out.

When she looked up, the Lady was gazing at her in a most perplexed manner, and she blushed.

Oh dear. How clumsy she was. Should she have excused herself and gone to her room? But then the coffee would have had time to set, and that would not do.

“This is excellent coffee, is it not, Lizzie?” she asked, sitting next to her sister on the sofa.

“It was, though normally I consider it bitter. Did the company import it, Grandmother?”

“Of course, dear. All coffee is imported. This is from South America, which is why it is gentler and fuller bodied than those you may have tried in London. Your grandfather is very particular about what he serves his guests.”

“South America,” Maggie marveled. “Does it come all that way by steamship? Would it not be more efficient to send it by air? Or perhaps the company uses airships?”

“Certainly not,” Lady Charlotte answered when it appeared Grandmother had a mouth rather more full of coffee than politeness dictated. “The Seacombe Steamship Company is a seagoing concern only. There are some cargoes, you must understand, that cannot be risked in the air.”

“There is no risk in airships,” Maggie blurted. “They go to the Antipodes and back regularly. And quickly. How long does a seagoing ship take to make that journey?”

Grandmother had recovered her ability to speak. “Are you implying that the Seacombe vessels are not only slow, but outmoded?”

“Of course not, Grand—”

“I suggest you restrict your remarks to that limited number of subjects about which you have some knowledge.”

“But I do have—”

“Elizabeth, would you like another cup of this coffee, though it came to us by outmoded methods?”

“I—no, thank you, I’ve had—”

“Margaret, please pour Miss Seacombe another, if you would.”

Crushed, feeling ashamed though she did not understand why she should, Maggie reached for the silver coffee pot. But the Lady got there first.

“Maggie, you have not touched yours. Allow me to refresh the ladies’ cups.”

Moving gracefully, the Lady proceeded to pour. Once she had finished with the coffee, the men came in and before Maggie’s wondering eyes, the Lady not only took over the role of hostess, she became the center of attention, seeing to the comfort of the gentlemen, tucking cushions behind the Baron’s back, making jokes with Mr. Malvern and Tigg. In fact, Grandmother was rather put in the shade and had no choice but to retreat to a corner with Lady Charlotte, from whence pointed comments emerged with some regularity and no audience.

When Maggie finished her trifle—which was first rate, being stuffed with plum jam, ladyfingers, fruit, and mounds of whipped cream, and flavored with what tasted like whiskey—she looked around for Lizzie. Perhaps it was just her imagination, but this whole evening seemed to be exceedingly peculiar, and she wanted to talk it over. Lizzie could be relied upon to separate fact from fancy.

But Lizzie was no longer in the room—and neither was Tigg.

Those rascals! Well, if they could make themselves scarce, then so could she. Maggie devoted half a thought to taking Claude’s elbow and spiriting him out of the room to join them in a lark, but he was deep in conversation with Mr. So-and-so. Never mind. She would find Lizzie and Tigg and it would be like old times, exploring together and making smart asides about the adults that they would never say to their faces.

A quick search of the upper floor and the gallery proved fruitless. It was a lovely night; chances were good that they had gone out into the garden. Perhaps they were even admiring the moonrise over the sea from the cliff-top.

Why had they not invited her? It was most unfair. If she could not rise to Maggie’s defense when Grandmother had snapped at her for asking perfectly reasonable questions, then at the very least Lizzie could include her so that she might be soothed and made cheerful again by their company.

Maggie emerged onto the terrace and closed the French doors behind her. No one was there but the footman, smoking the tail end of somebody’s cigarillo in the shadows by the ivy-covered wall. Her steps were light upon the flagged stairs, and then she reached the lawn, her skirts held up in both hands so the hems would not be soaked with dew as she ran for the rose garden.

But Lizzie and Tigg were not in this pretty spot, which, now that she thought about it, should have been obvious from the first. Tigg was not what you might call a rose garden sort of person. Lizzie wasn’t, either. No, it was quite certain that they were out on the cliff-top, where he could see the sky and point out the lights of the Royal Aeronautic Corps on St. Michael’s Mount.

Fortunately, the moon shed plenty of light, and she remembered the path from Claude’s brief tour of the grounds that morning. When she cleared the ornamental trees that formed the border between the order of the garden and the long grass and hillocks of the cliff-top, the wind off the sea brushed her face. Beneath her feet, she could swear she felt the boom of the waves breaking against the foot of the cliff below.

And there they were.

A bench had been placed about twenty feet back from the edge, and Lizzie and Tigg were seated upon it. Rather close together. Perhaps Lizzie was cold. Oh, she should have thought to bring one of the lovely soft shawls that Alice had brought them from the Duchy of Venice! But it was too l—

Before Maggie could take another step or announce her presence or do anything but gape, Tigg turned toward Lizzie—Lizzie lifted her gaze to his—and he leaned down and kissed her.