The Constant Companion (3 page)

Amelia left the room in high good humor. The idea of making Mary Besant sweat a little was exhilarating. Old cat!

She tripped lightly into the library and stared in amazement at the young female who was rising to her feet to meet her.

Amelia was a very thin, young girl with a pinched white face dressed in a brown wool gown, much patched and mended, and wearing, as she afterwards said, “The worst quiz of a bonnet I ever did see.”

“You are not the Miss Lamberton I wrote to. Who are you?” demanded Amelia.

“An it please your ladyship,” said the girl in a low voice, “I
am
Miss Lamberton. Miss Constance Lamberton. My aunt passed away, you see, but I thought… I hoped… th-that you would perhaps employ me as your companion instead,” she ended in a breathless rush.

“Good heavens, no,” said Amelia crossly. “You are much too young to play chaperone. Of course I wouldn’t dream of hiring you. Be off with you!”

“But—but I have nowhere to go tonight,” wailed Constance in despair. “Could I at least wait until morning?”

“No, of course not. Go away!” said Amelia petulantly.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” came the sugary voice of Mrs. Besant from the doorway.”

“No!” snapped Amelia. “This chit is nothing but an imposter. Old Maria’s dead, and this person claims to be her niece.”

Constance raised her magnificent eyes hopefully to Mrs. Besant’s face and then dropped them hurriedly. She saw no signs of a champion there.

But in that she was wrong.

Amelia had been yawning fretfully and staring at the wall, but Mary Besant had caught the full impact of those beautiful eyes. If Constance Lamberton were well-fed and well-clothed, why, she might be quite a beauty, thought Mrs. Besant, and wouldn’t Amelia just
hate
that!

“Amelia, my love, a word with you in private. ’Tis
most
important!”

“Oh, very well,” said Amelia with a gleam of interest in her eye. She was longing to know how Mary Besant meant to worm her way out of her crime of stealing. “You may go,” she said to Constance.

But as Constance was trailing dejectedly from the room, Mary Besant whispered urgently. “No, keep her for the moment until you hear what I have to say. You, Miss Lamberton,” she said in a louder voice, “are you Sir Edward Lamberton’s gel?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Constance in a pathetic voice which broke on a sob.

“As I thought,” smiled Mrs. Besant. “Wait in the hall a moment.”

Constance stared wildly at Lady Amelia with sudden hope. But then her face fell. Lady Amelia was examining her own beautiful face in the looking glass as if Miss Lamberton had never existed.

Mrs. Besant waited until the double doors had closed behind the shabby figure of Constance and then turned eagerly to her friend.

“Now, before I begin, Amelia,” she said eagerly, “you know that diamond pendant you so admired the other day?”

“Yes,” said Amelia slowly, a pale light of avarice beginning to dawn in her eyes.

“Well, it is yours, my dear—to make up for my stupid lapse of memory in taking your invitation by mistake.”

Amelia looked at Mary Besant thoughtfully and tapped her small foot. “There is a very fine pair of earrings that go with it,” she said softly.

Mary Besant’s eyes widened. Bloodsucker! Amelia had all the grasping greed of a Haymarket Cyprian. But if she, Mary, did not pay up then, by tomorrow morning all the world and his wife would know that she had purloined that letter!

“But of course, how remiss of me,” she said with a painful smile. “Of course, the earrings as well.”

“Very well,” said Amelia with an expression on her face like that of a well-fed cat. “Now, tell me, what is all this about that depressing Lamberton female? La! What a quiz.”

“That,” said Mrs. Besant dramatically pointing in the direction of the hall. “That is the way to Philip Cautry’s heart.”

“Fustian!” said Amelia roundly. “That drab!”

“But listen, my dear. Only listen. Sir Edward Lamberton was a wastrel and a rake-hell, but very well beloved by Society and very, very good
ton. And he taught Lord Philip Cautry to hunt!
For you know Lord Philip’s papa was a scholar and did not care for sports. ’Tis said Lord Philip was devoted to Sir Edward when he, Philip, was a boy. In fact, he once was heard to wonder what had become of the little Lamberton girl. Now, if
you
were to give such a respectable—such a
dull
little girl a home. Think on ’t! Philip would smile on you, would he not? Society would consider you had done more than your duty in rescuing one of their kind from poverty. Also,” added Mrs. Besant cleverly, “’twould be a marvelous foil for you! The girl is so plain and quiet. How she would set off your beauty!”

“Have her in again!” said Amelia abruptly.

Mrs. Besant threw open the doors triumphantly and called Constance.

Both women walked around the drab figure of Miss Lamberton, Mrs. Besant praying that the girl would keep those eyes
down
.

“Yes,” said Amelia slowly. “Very clever, Mary. Very clever indeed. I am beholden to you. Well, Constance, I have decided to give you the post.” Those magnificent eyes flashed up, but Lady Amelia was too preoccupied with her scheme to notice. “You will receive your bed and board, but no more. You will go about with me in Society and you will tell anyone who asks that it is thanks to my condescension that you have a home. Do you understand?”

“Oh, yes,” breathed Constance.

“You will need to be suitably dressed as befits my companion,” went on Lady Amelia thoughtfully. “Something plain and neat. Gray silk, I think…?

But Mary Besant had another brainwave. “My dear Amelia,” she cried. “Only think of the needless expense! And you have so many gowns you will never wear again.”

“That’s very true,” said Amelia, the idea appealing immensely to her cheese-paring nature. “Eliot, my maid, shall find you something suitable.”

Mrs. Besant sighed with satisfaction. Better that Miss Lamberton should be attired in Amelia’s gorgeous castoffs than in the drab colors that Amelia would undoubtedly have chosen for her.

Amelia touched the bell. “Ah, Bergen,” she said when the butler scuttled in. “Miss Lamberton is staying. She is my new companion. Take her things up and show her to some room or other.”

Constance was hardly able to believe her good fortune as she followed the butler up the stairs. She could not understand why such a hard-faced woman as Mrs. Besant had interceded on her behalf, but she was too grateful to have a roof over her head.

Bergen led the way on up and up until he reached a region of low ceilings and uncarpeted corridors. He pushed open a low door and dumped Constance’s bandbox on the bare floor of a small attic room which was unfurnished except for a narrow iron bedstead and one hard chair.

“This is yours,” he said with a pale glint of malice in his eyes. But then it was his turn to jump as Mary Besant’s voice grated in his ear. “No, no, Bergen. You must have taken leave of your senses. This will not do. Not at all. Miss Lamberton is not a servant, like you. Find something suitable for a lady of quality. I am sure we shall be friends,” she said to Constance but with her eyes on the butler. “I never forget my friends—or my enemies for that matter, heh, Bergen?”

Bergen gave her a surly look but led the way down the stairs again to a more luxurious region. He pushed open a door. Mrs. Besant took a quick look round. “This will do very nicely, Bergen. That will be all. You may go—as far away as possible.”

Bergen slouched off and Constance looked about her in amazement. A charming sitting room with walls panelled in delicate green silk led to a spacious bedroom with a large four-poster bed. The furniture was light and delicate and the curtains and carpets glowed with color. A small fire crackled briskly on the hearth.

“This cannot be for me!” she exclaimed.

“But it is. Of course it is,” said Mrs. Besant, putting an arm around the girl and pressing a bony hip uncomfortably into her side. “Just remember always that you have Mary Besant to thank for it.”

“How can I ever repay you?” cried Constance.

“Don’t worry,” murmured Mary Besant, baring her teeth and giving the girl another hard squeeze. “You’ll think of something.”

She gave a terrible horselaugh and Constance laughed with her, although she could not see what there was that was so funny.

When Mary Besant had left after a final bony squeeze, Constance was further surprised by the arrival of a small maid bearing a tray with a cold supper laid out on it. The maid bobbed a curtsy and said, “My lady says you are to rest tonight, miss, and to start your duties tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” murmured Constance gratefully. Lady Amelia was kind after all!

“I am very, very lucky,” thought Constance when she was left alone with her supper. “I must do my best to repay all this by being the best companion ever. And I shall start by praying for the Lady Amelia… and Mrs. Besant.”

She got down on her knees on the pretty carpet and prayed dutifully for Lady Amelia, a gesture which would have caused that young lady considerable mirth if she could have known.

Lady Eleanor Rider took another complacent look at the arrangements for her
musicale
. Rout chairs were neatly lined in rows in the blue saloon where a small dais holding a pianoforte and several palms had been erected at one end. The refreshments had been arranged in an adjoining saloon, and footmen were putting final touches to elaborate banks of hothouse flowers which lined the walls.

Everyone who was anyone would be there that evening, for Lady Eleanor prided herself on her entertainments and was ever-conscious of her ancient family name. It was a pity, she reflected, that she could not have married a title instead of plain Mr. George Rider who, although blue-blooded, unfortunately hailed from the untitled aristocracy. She only hoped that her brother Philip would honor his promise and put in an appearance.

Her complacent eye ran once more over the guest list and then widened as the name Lady Amelia Godolphin seemed to leap out of the page. She rang the bell and asked the butler to fetch Mr. Rider’s secretary
immediately
.

A thin, young man with sandy hair and a nervous tic quickly answered her summons. “Mr. Evans,” demanded Lady Eleanor imperiously, “pray explain what Lady Amelia Godolphin’s name is doing on my guest list.”

Mr. Evans’ worried expression cleared. “That was Mr. Rider’s suggestion, madam,” he said. “Mr. Rider was entertaining the Comte Duval and Monsieur le Comte mentioned that he was looking forward to the
musicale
and said he hoped to see Lady Amelia there and Mr. Rider said of course she would be, and asked me to make a note of it.”

“Blast the man!” muttered Lady Eleanor in a way that boded ill for her absent spouse. “I am most displeased, Mr. Evans. I invite only the highest of the
ton
to this house and I do not consider that female good
ton
. Make a note of that! She is
never
to be invited here again.”

“Very good, madam,” said Mr. Evans woodenly.

“And if you are doing nothing else at the moment, you can check the arrangements. See that Mr. Favioli’s music is properly arranged.” Mr. Favioli was the male soprano who was to entertain the company that evening.

“I have letters for Mr. Rider…” began the secretary, his voice trailing away under Lady Eleanor’s steely glare. “But you have time to help,” finished Lady Eleanor for him. Mr. Evans walked off to attend to the music, and Lady Eleanor walked briskly to the hall as she heard the sounds of her husband’s arrival.

Lady Eleanor was a tall, harsh-faced woman with a well-upholstered figure, severe black hair and a cold black eye. By contrast, Mr. Rider was a small, fussy, timid man, and it was said that Lady Eleanor had borne him off to the altar, rather than the other way around. The couple was childless, and since they were both now in their middle years, the wags had given up pointing out that Lady Eleanor’s commanding stare was enough to turn the veriest Don Juan impotent.

“What is this nonsense about inviting Amelia Godolphin?” she demanded, without waiting for him to remove his hat.

“Who?” said her husband blinking rapidly. “I’m very sorry, my dear,” he added, apologizing quickly and meekly with the air of a man who has spent his life apologizing for one thing or the other.

“So you should be,” she snapped. “But you men are all the same. Carried away by the sight of a pretty ankle. You’ll be inviting tavern wenches next, that you will.”

“My dear, I assure…”

“But then, you always had a bold eye for the ladies,” remarked Lady Eleanor. Her husband’s eye blinked at her as boldly as a startled rabbit’s, but he was too used to his wife accusing him of being a ladies’ man to take her remark very seriously.

“Come into the drawing room,” went on Lady Eleanor. “I wish to talk to you about Philip.”

Mr. Rider followed her meekly. “Sit down,” said Lady Eleanor. “Now, Philip has just celebrated his thirty-second year and it is time he was thinking of settling down. It is time we introduced him to a suitable girl.”

“Quite, my dear,” said her husband faintly.

“Now, there is a young lady, a Miss Limrighton, who will be here tonight. She is just the sort of girl Philip should marry. I want you to make sure that they are introduced to each other. Also, think up some ruse to get them left alone together.”

Mr. Rider thought of his toplofty, arrogant brother-in-law who, if the rumors were to be believed, had already a very pretty ladybird in keeping.

“Well, you know,” he said timidly, “Philip will not listen to me, and surely you could arrange it better.”

“Nonsense!” said his wife. “These sort of things are better handled by a man. Too pushing in a lady of my breeding. You will do it, that is all, and we shall have a comfortable coze about it after the evening is over.”

Mr. Rider’s heart sank. His wife’s idea of a comfortable coze was to interrogate him of his doings of the day, and then tell him in her forceful manner where he had gone wrong.

But, “Just as you say,” he bleated, and began to edge out of the room in search of his secretary.