Nell Gwynne's On Land and At Sea (3 page)

“Ah, that’s a Bowie knife,” beamed Mr. Pickett. “H’ive killed bears with that knife, ma’am—a little bird like that was no problem h’at all.”

“Bears? What’s happened, Beatrice dear?” said Mrs. Corvey, pointedly looking in the wrong direction.

“Do not upset yourself, Mamma. The bear is, I am sure, only a figure of speech. A bird attacked Charlotte’s bonnet, and this kind gentleman came to our aid. He threw a knife at it, which was a little alarming but certainly timely aid,” said Lady Beatrice diplomatically. “Ah—Mr. Pickett, may I present my mother, Mrs. Elizabeth Corvey?”

“Charmed, ma’am,” said Mr. Pickett, taking her hand and brushing it with his mustache.

“And let me introduce my brother Herbert; my sisters Jane, Dora and Maude; and my cousins Erato Otley and Charlotte Rendlesham,” said Lady Beatrice.

“Charmed, ladies; sir. And you must be Miss Beatrice Corvey, ma’am?” said Mr. Pickett hopefully. Lady Beatrice made a graceful gesture of acknowledgment.

“I am, sir.”

“Well. I must say, Miss Beatrice, I’m ’eartily sorry for the h’inconvenience to your fair cousin, but delighted on me own h’account to meet so many h’enchanting ladies. As it ’appens, I’m throwing a ball tonight, a sort of welcome event, you know, and the guest list was a little short on h’account of me not knowing too many of the gentry ’ereabouts yet. Perhaps you ladies would care to h’attend?”

“Oh, Mamma, might we?” cried Dora, clasping her hands. Their vocation being what it was, the ladies seldom got invited to parties in a non-professional capacity. And after all, they were on holiday.

“I assure you, ma’am, all proprieties will be h’observed,” said Mr. Pickett.

“I haven’t danced in simply ages,” said Maude.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt,” said Mrs. Corvey. Her black lenses were now fixed on Mr. Pickett. “It is a little irregular, but we are on holiday, after all.”

“Gor blimey! That’d be simply fine, ma’am,” said Mr. Pickett, taking her hand once again and shaking it heartily. “It’s right over yonder there at the Royal, at 9 o’clock. I would be delighted to send a carriage for you.”

“Nonsense, young man,” said Mrs. Corvey firmly. “We’re staying quite close at hand. The walk will do my young ladies good.”

“I look forward to seeing you then.” Mr. Pickett replaced his hat. “There won’t be h’any trouble with h’invitations at the door; just you tell them Mr. Tredway Pickett said you all were h’invited.”

“Most gracious, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Corvey.

“I will not h’impede your perambulation any further, then,” said Mr. Pickett, tipping his hat. “Ladies. Sir. Miss Beatrice.”

He strode away from them along the Parade. They watched him go, somewhat bemused.

“‘
Gor blimey
’?” said Mrs. Otley.

“The man is obviously an American. Why on earth does he effect that…astonishing accent?” returned Miss Rendlesham in faint horror.

“Why indeed?” said Mrs. Corvey; but what she was most urgently wondering to herself was: why and how had the peculiar American stepped off his yacht into the sea the previous day? Because she was almost certain he was the man she had observed from the beach.

That afternoon a letter arrived from London, bearing the innocuous return address the Gentlemen employed for correspondence. The landlady presented it to Herbertina, who thanked her and bore it straight upstairs to Mrs. Corvey. Its text, when decrypted, read as follows:

Regarding yours of the 2
^nd
: no field trials being conducted in your area. Please send more detailed account using Encryption 7.

Upon reading this, Mrs. Corvey sighed, rummaged through her trunk for the encryption book and settled down to write a long and detailed letter.

The Royal Hotel stood prominently at the intersection of Victoria Parade and The Strand, and was therefore an easy five minutes’ walk from the Ladies’ lodging house. The windows blazed with light as they approached and a great many people milled about the entrance, peering in; for balls were an infrequent occurrence in Torquay, given that so many of its visitors were invalids hoping to restore their health.

A gentleman of indeterminate status, in a powdered wig, bowed them across the threshold and directed them inward. They were able to find their own way to the ballroom, following the strains of “Sir Roger de Coverly”, and on entering beheld a grand salon with walls painted in the Etruscan style and no less than three chandeliers casting their blazing light on what must be admitted to be a rather poor turnout. Some four or five couples were doing their best to comprise a set as Mr. Pickett watched gloomily from beside the punch bowl. His face brightened immeasurably, however, when he spotted Lady Beatrice.

“Miss Beatrice!” he said, easily audible over the orchestra, as he advanced upon her. “And your charming family. I am delighted, ma’am, just delighted that you all could h’attend. Ma’am, may I h’offer you a cup of punch?” he said to Mrs. Corvey as he more or less swept her off to a chair by the wall.

“Too kind,” murmured Mrs. Corvey.

“Waiter! A cup of punch for the lady!” bawled Mr. Pickett. Turning to Herbertina, he said: “There’s a bar right through that door yonder, with cigars and brandy, sir, if you’re so disposed.”

“Oh, jolly good,” said Herbertina in relief.

“And I reckon this thing is h’about bloody done—” Mr. Pickett looked over his shoulder at the Roger de Coverly set, which was coming to its anticlimactic close. “There! I thought they’d ’ave to get it over with sooner or later. Hi! Give us a waltz next,” he ordered the orchestra.

They obliged promptly. He bowed to Lady Beatrice. “Miss Beatrice, may I ’ave the honor of this dance?”

Lady Beatrice extended her hand and found herself borne out onto the dance floor. She had not danced since her days in Simla, and was at first concerned lest she display some clumsiness on that account. She soon saw that she need have no fears, Mr. Pickett proving so domineering a partner that she might as well have been a dressmaker’s dummy on wheels.

As they whirled around, Lady Beatrice glimpsed some of the gentlemen guests eagerly approaching the newcomers; who, with fluttering fans and demurely downcast eyes, were giving a formidable imitation of respectable debutantes. Herbertina, on the other hand, appeared to have been ambushed in her progress to the bar by a number of hopeful females, and was looking extremely annoyed at being obliged to do the gentlemanly thing and ask one of them to dance.

“May I just say, Miss Beatrice, you look h’exceptionally lovely this h’evening? ’Ow seldom it is one finds oneself in the company of one so h’exquisitely refined,” Mr. Pickett shouted over the music.

“Thank you. Mr. Pickett, surely you are an American?”

He looked crestfallen. “Aw. You smoked me, then?”

“The—Bowie knife, was it? That was quite distinctive, Mr. Pickett,” Lady Beatrice said with some understatement, “and your voice does betray a certain hint of the Southern areas of America.”

“I thought I had the lingo down pat. And here I’ve been paying that butler good money to teach me the accents of the mother tongue,” said Mr. Pickett, growing somewhat redder in the face than even his vigorous dancing might have induced.

Lady Beatrice quelled an urge to laugh. “They are correct for the East End, I believe, but not really suitable for a gentleman of your station. Your…natural accent is quite charming.”

Mr. Pickett scowled. “If he’s been having fun at my expense, I’ll make him wish he hadn’t. See, the truth is, Miss Beatrice—I
am
English, by blood and descent. The Picketts were cavaliers who left for America when Oliver Cromwell was running things over here. They should have gone back home after things were set to rights, but they didn’t, somehow. They stayed on in America, which was a fatal mistake. It’s no country for gentlemen, that is for certain sure.”

“I have heard that opinion expressed,” said Lady Beatrice cautiously.

“Well, I’m here to tell you it’s true. I have turned my back forever on the land of my nativity and returned to the mother country! What kind of a nation is it, I ask you, that puts a miserable county tax assessor in a position to insult a man of quality? With impunity too, may I say, because you just can’t demand satisfaction of that kind of low-born churl.”

“I am so sorry to hear it, Mr. Pickett,” said Lady Beatrice, noting the red glare in his eyes as he worked himself into a rage. She predicted he would gnash his teeth next, and was obscurely pleased with herself when he did so.

“Varlets! That is just exactly the word for what they are, Miss Beatrice. A whole nation of varlets. I will not dismay you with an account of the circumstances of my departure; I will only say I suffered intolerable abuse at the hands of petty tyrants. No, I’m well rid of America and pleased as punch to be back on my
true
ancestral soil. I want nothing more than to become as one hundred per cent an Englishman outwardly as I am in my heart.”

“What a noble goal,” said Lady Beatrice, thinking to herself that it was going to be a long evening.

Mrs. Corvey sat in her appointed chair against the wall, sipping from her cup of punch and watching the dancers. The waltz ended; couples disengaged, bowed or curtsied, and most made for the punchbowl. Mr. Pickett showed no signs of relinquishing Lady Beatrice, however. He called for a galop, the orchestra struck up a lively tune, and Mr. Pickett and Lady Beatrice went speeding away down the dance floor. A pair of misses settled down two chairs from Mrs. Corvey, fanning themselves energetically.

“Well!” said one of the young ladies. “Mamma won’t be pleased. He seems quite taken by that minx in the red gown.”

“She’s welcome to him,” said the other young lady with a shudder. “He really is the most frightful eccentric!”

“I thought I should die laughing at that accent!”

The other miss leaned toward her friend, and in what was presumably her best imitation of stern matronly tones said: “But, my dear, he’s as rich as Croesus!”

“There is that,” said the first young lady. “Tabby says he’s paid a year’s lease on Waldon House.”

“A year’s lease! Fancy living here year-round. He isn’t going up to London for the season?”

“I don’t believe he is aware of our customs,” said her friend primly. “Why are the rich ones always complete barbarians? Mamma said that she heard he intends to buy the land along the cliff tops by St. Mary’s Bay, because he wishes to build a mansion there.”

“Fancy anyone wanting to live over there with no Society but the sheep!”

“Clearly he is of a romantic nature,” said the one. The other rolled her eyes and they lifted their fans to discreetly mask their giggles.

At this point Mrs. Corvey spotted Herbertina emerging from the bar in a cloud of cigar smoke. She hurried to the punch table, ladled herself a drink, and took a seat beside Mrs. Corvey.

“My God, he’s smitten with her, isn’t he?” she said, nodding her head in the direction of Lady Beatrice and Mr. Pickett.

“Seems to be,” said Mrs. Corvey.

“Several fellows were discussing him in the bar,” said Herbertina. “They’re all sick with envy for his racing yacht. Designed her himself, someone said. I gather she’s won three races already.
The Sceptre
, I think they said she’s called.”

“Anyone know why he talks like a Stepney greengrocer?” said Mrs. Corvey.

“People assume he’s a bit mad, though they agree he’s brilliant at ship building,” said Herbertina with a shrug. She reached into her waistcoat pocket and felt about. “Damn! I left my lucifer case in the bar.” She rose hastily and went off in search of it.

The galop is not normally a conversational dance, since so much effort is required simply to breathe while dancing. However, even storming through it like a wild mustang of the Western plains as he did, Mr. Pickett’s lungs proved equal to the challenge.

“I must say, Miss Beatrice,
you
speak in a splendidly refined manner,” he roared. “Would you be at all agreeable to giving me elocution lessons? I’d pay handsomely.”

It was a moment before Lady Beatrice could reply, caught as she was between astonishment and the need to inhale. Mr. Pickett, watching her face closely, went red once more.

“Miss Beatrice, I must apologize! I certainly intended no offense. I hope you’ll forgive a poor scion of Britain raised among ruder stock,” he implored.

“Quite,” said Lady Beatrice, as the music thudded to its conclusion. “Mr. Picket, I confess I am somewhat fatigued. Might I be escorted to a chair?”

“Would you be at all inclined to some liquid refreshment, Miss Beatrice?” said Mr. Pickett as he bowed her to her seat by Mrs. Corvey, who sat presently alone, dance partners having claimed all the other staff of Nell Gwynne’s for a stately quadrille.

“That would be most kind.” Lady Beatrice opened her fan and fluttered it in a not-quite-dismissive manner to speed Mr. Pickett on his way.

“Your cheeks are pink and your pupils are dilated,” observed Mrs. Corvey. “Having a good time, are we?”

“An energetic one, at least. I would appear to have an admirer,” said Lady Beatrice. “It appears that Mr. Pickett desires to alter himself into an Englishman, and has been led astray in this enterprise by his butler. Evidently he was convinced that bizarre accent was correct.”

“Hears what he wants to hear and then believes it, I dare say,” commented Mrs. Corvey.

Lady Beatrice, remembering the glaring eyes and gnashing teeth, nodded thoughtfully.

“He is understandably unhappy with the results, now. Do you know, he asked me to give him elocution lessons? And then was struck with mortification when he realized he had offered me money.”

“Money, eh?” Mrs. Corvey suppressed a chuckle. “What a thoughtful gentleman, to be sure. Well, I should tell him
Yes
to those elocution lessons, my dear.”

“Truly?” Lady Beatrice glanced sidelong at Mrs. Corvey.

“Oh, yes. I think our Mr. Pickett bears watching,” said Mrs. Corvey, just as that gentleman returned and presented Lady Beatrice with a cup of punch.

“Sweets to the sweet, and refreshment to one who refreshes all eyes,” he said, with a gallant bow.

“Thank you so much, dear Mr. Pickett,” said Lady Beatrice. “Mamma has agreed that it would be quite proper to assist you in learning more suitable accents. My only fee, of course, shall be that Mamma be permitted to attend us and so partake of the restorative air for which Torbay is so well known.”

“Indeed, young man,” said Mrs. Corvey, gazing at a spot some two feet to the left of Mr. Pickett.

Mr. Pickett grinned hugely. “Why, certainly,” he said with a broad wink at Lady Beatrice. “Mother shall certainly come along as a chaperone. When may I call upon you, and at what o’clock, Miss Beatrice and Mrs. Corvey? I have a fine four-in-hand and we can take in something of the countryside.”

“Perhaps the day after tomorrow, in the early afternoon,” said Mrs. Corvey. “My girls are late sleepers.”

Next day, as shortly after midday as could possible be construed to be “early afternoon,” a messenger with a gift called upon Lady Beatrice. She and Mrs. Corvey went downstairs to the lodging house parlor to receive it.

The messenger was a man in good new suit that in no way disguised his dubious origins. His face bore a notably crooked nose, and his hands were calloused and bent into permanent half-open fists; despite which, a fine gold ring gleamed on the right one. His voice was a pleasant tenor with a much better-bred accent that the unfortunate Mr. Pickett; however, his half-smile and bold gaze quite gave the lie to his obsequious tone. Also, he leered at Lady Beatrice.