Nell Gwynne's On Land and At Sea (5 page)

Mrs. Corvey noted it also.

“Why—thank you, ma’am,” said Mr. Picket.

“You are most welcome, dear Mr. Pickett. Do you not find that the sea air gives one a prodigious appetite?” said Lady Beatrice. Still holding his gaze, she sank her white teeth into a bun.

Mr. Pickett coughed. “I do indeed, Miss Beatrice.”

During the ensuing conversation, through which Mr. Pickett was unable to tear his eyes from the slow progression of delicacies towards Lady Beatrice’s red lips, Mrs. Corvey grew silent and at last unobtrusively set her cup and saucer to one side. Composing herself in a comfortable attitude, she feigned sleep. Lady Beatrice, who had been half-expecting this development, glanced sideways at her and spoke in a lowered voice to Mr. Pickett.

“Oh! Dear Mamma has fallen asleep. Perhaps it is the unaccustomed exercise.” She set down her own cup and saucer on the depleted tea tray. “Let us not disturb her. Have you anywhere private wherein we may continue our conversation, Mr. Pickett? A garden, perhaps?”

“Why, there is indeed a garden, Miss Beatrice,” Mr. Pickett whispered loudly, rising and offering her his arm. “Your servant, ma’am!”

Lady Beatrice rose, took his arm, and with serene and unshakeable purpose led him out upon the terrace.

Mrs. Corvey, once well-assured of privacy, rose and swiftly approached the roll top desk at the far end of the room. She was pleased to see the desk was open and unlocked, rendering her set of lock picks unnecessary. Rapidly she sorted through the papers scattered here and there on the desk. They consisted principally of receipts and bills of trade from wholesale dealers in iron and steel, timber, and chemicals of the sort most commonly used in the manufacture of incendiary devices; all of which Mr. Pickett appeared to have purchased in remarkably large quantities. There was also a long list of accounts of what appeared to be wages paid to laborers, as well as pages of extensive correspondence with a Mr. Shrove, who seemed to operate a foundry.

In addition to these, Mrs. Corvey found some rather heated correspondence with an American banking house, contrasting with rather more cordial letters of inquiry to one Mr. Lawrence, a house agent. Mr. Pickett certainly seemed well-supplied with funds, and determined to stay in England.

Nothing more of importance was to be found, though Mrs. Corvey searched diligently, and long before she heard approaching footsteps had returned to the settee. She watched sidelong as Mrs. Drumm, accompanied by the housemaid, peered into the room.

“Looks like they’ve finished,” the housemaid murmured.

Mrs. Corvey sat upright and in her sweetest and most tremulous voice called out: “Is someone there?”

Mrs. Drumm cleared her throat. “Shall we take away the tea things, madam?”

“Indeed, I think you might,” said Mrs. Corvey.

She watched as Mrs. Drumm and her fellow domestic entered the room and began clearing away the trays. Mrs. Drumm, thinking herself unseen, pointed at the remaining watercress sandwiches and elbowed the housemaid.

“Look at that! Always asks for ’em and scarcely touches ’em!,” she muttered, apparently under the impression that Mrs. Corvey was deaf as well as blind.

“What was that, my dear?” inquired Mrs. Corvey, putting her hand to her ear.

“I was only wondering, madam, whether the cress sandwiches was all right,” said Mrs. Drumm with a sniff.

“Oh, I had two, myself,” exclaimed Mrs. Corvey, clasping her hands. “They were delightful. And I quite enjoyed the buns and tea cakes. Your pastry cook, if I may say so, is an artist, my dear, a positive artist.”

Mrs. Drumm’s ruddy face brightened still further with pleasure. “Very kind of you to say so, madam, I’m sure, as it was me in fact made ’em.”

“What a fortunate man your employer is,” replied Mrs. Corvey.

The maid made a disgruntled noise and Mrs. Drumm shot her a warning glance. Mrs. Corvey, observing this, inquired delicately, “I wonder whether I might ask if you are content in your situation, Mrs. Drumm?”

“I’m sure I could speak no ill of him what pays my wages, madam,” said Mrs. Drumm in a tone which implied exactly the opposite.

“Of course,” said Mrs. Corvey in a tone which implied
she
understood exactly what Mrs. Drumm meant. “On the other hand, any sensible woman with a splendid gift must surely be sensitive to opportunities for advancement.”

Mrs. Drumm eyed her in silence for a moment. Her eyes were as black as Mrs. Corvey’s own, if more natural, but gave her examining stare a considerable sharpness. Turning to the housemaid, she said, “Dolly, just you get them trays downstairs.”

“What, both of them?” said Dolly querulously.

Mrs. Drumm appropriated the plate of sandwiches and hurriedly stacked the trays one upon another. “There! Take ’em off.”

Dolly complied sulkily as Mrs. Drumm took the liberty of seating herself opposite Mrs. Corvey. “May I offer you another sandwich, madam?”

“Oh, were there any more? I was sure they had all been ate up,” said Mrs. Corvey, groping forward. Mrs. Drumm passed her a sandwich and took one herself. Mrs. Corvey consumed hers with sounds of dignified rapture; Mrs. Drumm looked pleased.

“I make an excellent cucumber sandwich, as well,” she said.

“
So
refreshing in the summertime,” exclaimed Mrs. Corvey. “I don’t suppose you have a receipt for water ices?”

“It happens I do, madam,” replied Mrs. Drumm. “Water ices, ice cream bombes, syllabubs, panachee jellies, flummeries, and fancy ice water cups.”

Mrs. Corvey contained herself. “I should have thought you might have commanded your own price in London,” she said diffidently.

“Saving your grace, I should have thought so too,” said Mrs. Drumm with a shrug, helping herself to another sandwich.“But times is hard and you take what you can.”

“You understand, I hope, that I ask simply because Mr. Pickett and my daughter seem to get on very well—is he an agreeable employer?” said Mrs. Corvey.

Mrs. Drumm grimaced.

“Can’t tell a lie, madam, I’ve never worked for such a man. He’s that given to temper—last night he came in roaring and fired poor Mr. Ponsonby, saying he’d made him look a fool. Nearly hit him with his walking stick! I suspect that’s the way they carry on in America, but it won’t do here. And this morning everything was sixes and sevenses and who’s to run the household, I’d like to know? Tells me he wants all kinds of real English food—but he won’t touch the suet pudding, won’t touch the mutton, won’t touch the boiled beef and carrots, and only picks at the roast chicken and sends it back, asking whether I don’t know how to fry it! And when I fries it as best I can, with a nice bit of gammon on the side, he says it still ain’t right.”

“Dear me, how dreadful,” said Mrs. Corvey. “I think this would prove rather a trial for my daughter. If you will pardon the indelicacy, Mrs. Drumm, he must pay you frightfully well, if you are willing to endure such a difficult master.”

“Not all that well,” said Mrs. Drumm grimly, eying the last sandwich on the plate.

“And if some other party was to offer you a situation?”

“It would be duly considered, madam.” Having decided against eating the last sandwich, Mrs. Drumm rose to her feet, took the dish and stopped midway through a curtsey, concluding that there was no point when her knees hurt and she was addressing a blind woman anyway. “I do beg your pardon, madam, but I ought to get back to the kitchen.”

Mr. Pickett had apparently not found occasion to quarrel with his gardener. His garden lawn was immaculately sheared in perfect geometric stripes and the hedges shielding the garden from his neighbors were well-tended, vigorous, and gratifyingly tall, providing more than adequate concealment for any strolling couple.

“It is a splendid sea view, Miss Beatrice, is it not?” said Mr. Pickett, hopefully slipping his arm around Lady Beatrice’s waist. To his great relief, she did not stiffen or withdraw, but rather responded to the liberty with supple compliance.

“It is an enthralling view,” said Lady Beatrice, looking deeply into his eyes.

“I reckon the house I’m proposing to build will have a view that beats this one, all the same,” said Mr. Pickett a little breathlessly, for Lady Beatrice’s steady grey gaze was having a distinct effect on his vascular system.

“I am sure it shall,” said Lady Beatrice. She somehow managed to sway closer, so that the cloud-like silk of her skirts frothed about his legs.

Experiencing a frisson of irrational happiness, Mr. Pickett continued:

“A fine view, a fine house in every way. I’m not planning to throw up any little bachelor shack, you understand, Miss Beatrice: I’m intending a real old proper British mansion with room for generations to come. A place where a man might settle down, take a gracious lady to wife, and raise a brood of valiant Englishmen, like a nest of sea-eagles, ever-ready to defend their mother country from vile invaders. Why, nothing would please me more than that our dearly beloved future monarchs might rest confident in the knowledge that as long as the Picketts of Devon live, England’s shores will be safe.”

“How noble; how brave,” said Lady Beatrice, maintaining eye contact until she felt his arm begin to tremble; at which point she turned and gazed out to sea. She gave a little sigh.

“Nobility and bravery are both called for, Miss Beatrice,” said Mr. Pickett. “The specter of war may seem far off and unlikely to trouble us, but who can trust those French? And the Spaniard is just as bent on empire as he ever was, however feeble and impotent he may appear. And don’t you think for a minute that those rebels in the former colonies wouldn’t just jump at the chance to get square with us for beating them in the War of 1812.” He glared angrily out to sea, as though to pierce the distance to America, quite unaware that he was gazing in the general direction of France. “Uncouth villains!”

Lady Beatrice, seeing the light of fanaticism beginning to blaze in his eyes once more, decided it was time to drag his attention back to the matter at hand. Observing the angle of the sunset, she turned in such a way as to allow the streaming golden light to display her charms to their greatest advantage. With wide eyes and parted lips, she gazed upon Mr. Pickett as though he were the hero of her dreams. It had its due effect on Mr. Pickett, who gulped, lurched forward under the irresistible influence of her beauty, and bent her backward in a kiss.

The embrace went on for some time, so it was fortunate that the garden was, as mentioned before, quite a private one. The object of Mr. Pickett’s attentions neither screamed, struggled nor made any creditable attempt to resist him, and it was only his own sense of propriety which called a halt to the proceedings.

“Why—why, my dear Miss Beatrice, what must you think of me?” he said, gasping for breath. “I do humbly beg your pardon! I’ll go down on my knees if you but ask. Only spare a poor mortal overcome by your radiant beauty!”

Lady Beatrice favored him with an expression that managed to convey the trepidation of a wounded fawn mixed with passionate adoration. She had learned to avoid the instinctive movements of quickly smoothing her garments, rearranging her décolletage, and tucking her hair back into place; a single forlornly dangling tress had the power to break hearts when properly presented. “Oh, Mr. Pickett—dear Mr. Pickett—how can I tell you what I feel? But we must speak of this occurrence no further!” She raised her hands to her face, as in dismay. “And only think! Poor Mamma sleeps within.”