The Constant Companion (6 page)

They shall soon be married, thought Constance, and perhaps Lady Amelia will ask me to be her bridesmaid. I shall make myself… oh… ever such a pretty dress and perhaps Lord Philip will notice.… “Will notice what?” demanded a savage voice in her mind. “He never notices you now, so why should he even notice you at his own wedding.”

And Constance flushed slightly and felt very sad, and did not yet know why.

Lord Philip happened at that moment to glance across the room at her. The flush on her cheeks lent her face some much needed color and she looked young and remarkably beautiful as she sat studying the figures on her painted fan among the older, turbanned chaperones. Her dress was of a misty, smoky blue muslin which had formerly belonged to Amelia. Her creamy shoulders rose above the low neckline and her jet black hair was pinned in a demure little coronet on top of her small head. She wore no jewelry, but had pinned a little bunch of fresh violets in her hair. She had the fragile, translucent beauty of a spring flower.

Lord Philip gazed down at Lady Amelia who was pirouetting under his raised arm and frowned. He suddenly wished Amelia would not wear quite so much jewelry or such revealing dresses.

Before the dance separated them, he asked, “Why is Miss Lamberton sitting with the dowagers? Does she not approve of dancing?”

All Amelia had to do was say, “Yes,” and Lord Philip’s slight interest in Constance Lamberton would have died. But Amelia considered Philip to be very high in the instep and wished to appear equally so. “Her place is with the chaperones,” she said haughtily. “She is merely fulfilling the duties for which she is paid.”

With that she tripped off in the figure of the dance and left Lord Philip to perform his part while his busy mind began to consider the implications of what she had said.

He did not wish to ask Constance to dance himself—he was very aware of his rank and his old name, and someone of his standing did not seek out little companions at Almack’s. But Peter, now, never noticed who he was dancing with—or so Lord Philip believed. Anyway, he owed it to the memory of Constance’s dead father to at least see that she was socially entertained.

He found Peter dreamily propping up a pillar under the musician’s gallery. Peter was not a popular partner for he frequently forgot which lady he had asked to dance.

“Peter—you are not engaged at present. Why do you not ask Miss Lamberton for a dance?” said Lord Philip.

“Why not ask her yourself?” countered Peter lazily.

“Because I am already engaged to dance with several other ladies,” said Philip. “Go to it, man. You said, after all, that she had beautiful eyes.”

“So I did,” said Peter. “Where is she? Ah! She looks just like a London twilight in spring, all smoky blue and gold.”

Lord Philip stared insolently across the room at Constance who lowered her eyes. “I don’t see any gold,” he remarked.

“Her eyes,” said Peter. “Her eyes have little gold flecks in them. I shall go and have a closer look.”

He ambled off and Lord Philip gave his retreating back an indulgent smile. He hoped Peter would remember that the next dance was a quadrille and not try to perform the waltz!

But the quadrille was a new dance and Constance had not learned the steps which looked very baffling and intricate, more like a minature ballet than a dance. She felt sure she could have acquitted herself tolerably well in a country dance, for she had learned the figures of most of them a long time ago when she was a little girl. So she hung her head and explained softly that she had not yet learned to dance the quadrille.

“Then I shall sit and talk to you,” said the amiable Peter, pulling forward a little gilt rout chair and placing it so that his back was to the ballroom and he was directly facing Constance.

“Your eyes are very beautiful,” he said.

“Thank you,” said Constance in an embarrassed voice and becoming aware of the stares of the dowagers next to her.

“Mr. Pope says,” went on Peter, stretching out his long legs, “‘True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, as those move easiest who have learned to dance.’ Do you agree? I ask because I am a poet, you see.”

Constance searched her mind feverishly for something witty and scintillating to say to this odd young man but finally came up with “Oh!”

“Ah, so you say! So you say!” cried Peter, leaving Constance with the horrible thought that she had said something completely different. “But you see I believe in inspiration. Sometimes I sit for days and not a word comes to me and then—Boom!—my fickle Muse bends to my ears and whispers divine words.”

“I cannot imagine a Muse saying ‘Boom!’” said Constance.

“She doesn’t
say
‘Boom!’ She
appears
like a… a… a muffin man ringing his curst bell.”

Constance began to giggle helplessly, wondering if they were both mad.

“Pray you, sir,” she gasped finally, “say your Muse appears like a flash of lightning… or… or a golden bird alighting on your shoulder, but—oh, dear—the muffin man!”

“Very good, very good,” said Peter producing a small, grimy piece of paper from the pocket of his evening coat and a piece of lead pencil. “Let me see… what was that? Ah! Golden bird… yes,
very good
. You have a good ear, Miss… er… never mind, I shall read my latest poem to you. It is called ‘Twilight in London.’ He searched frantically about his person and then heaved a sigh. “I have it not. No matter. I shall call on you as soon as possible.”

“May I know your name, sir,” ventured Constance, slightly embarrassed by this young eccentric but glad of his company.

“I am Peter Potter. I am a friend of Philip. You know, Cautry. Chap over there with green eyes like a parrot.”

“Cat,” said Constance gently. “Cats have green eyes, Mr. Potter. I think parrots have black eyes.”

“We shall make a marvelous team,” said Peter. “Your imagery and my genius. Oh, it is the waltz. Famous! We shall dance.”

“I cannot,” said Constance dismally. “I have not been given permission, and in any case I do not know the steps of the waltz any more than I know the steps of the quadrille.”

“Oh, the waltz is easy. You just follow me. But I shall find permission first.”

And to Constance’s surprise that is exactly what Peter did. He did it by way of interrupting Lady Jersey in the middle of her favorite anecdote and saying, “I wish to ask Miss Lamberton to dance. You do not object? Good. Good!” and with that he ambled off leaving Lady Jersey, who had not said a word, to stare after him.

Constance timidly took the floor. She was sure Amelia would be annoyed with her for dancing, but, on the other hand, Mr. Potter was Amelia’s future husband’s closest friend.

For all his eccentricity, Peter turned out to be a remarkably good dancer and an even better teacher, and soon Constance was floating round happily in his bony arms, oblivious of Lord Philip Cautry’s sudden stare and Lady Amelia’s raised eyebrows.

Constance was slightly disappointed when the dance ended, but Peter was still at her side. He took his former chair and seemed to have settled in for the evening.

“What a beautiful fan,” he said, taking Constance’s fan from her hands.

“It is the only thing I have of my late mother,” said Constance.

“Peter, a word with you if Miss Lamberton can spare you.”

Constance looked up quickly into the emerald eyes of Lord Philip Cautry.

“Certainly,” Peter got lazily to his feet and absentmindedly walked off with Lord Philip, still carrying Constance’s fan.

“I am grateful to you for giving Miss Lamberton a dance,” said Lord Philip, as soon as they were out of earshot. “But you are making such a play for the girl that everyone expects you to put up the banns.”

Peter made no reply. He had suddenly realized he was very hungry indeed. He forgot he was with Philip, he forgot he was still carrying Constance’s fan. He saw the food in an adjoining room and headed straight for it with single-minded intent.

Lord Philip shook his head and let him go. He was used to his friend’s eccentricities, and in fact tolerated a great deal of eccentricity from many of his aristocratic acquaintances but would have dismissed a servant on the spot for one hundredth of their vagaries of behavior.

Meanwhile, Lady Amelia had decided that the time was ripe for a little genteel seduction. She could not flirt too openly with Lord Philip in the ballroom—but if she got him to return with her to her home, there she could really set the stage. Constance, of course, would have to be present, but that had not deterred her in the past.

She had one more dance with Lord Philip, her second, a circumstance which started the gossiping tongues wagging. As she curtsyed to him at the end of the dance, she gazed up at him with a discreet invitation in her eyes. “I am fatigued by all these people, my lord,” she murmured. “But I am always prepared to receive favored guests in my home later in the evening.…” She let her voice trail away and lowered her long lashes.

“Then I hope I am a favored guest,” replied Lord Philip, taking his cue. He was conscious of a feeling of relief. It was already eleven o’clock. Respectable,
marriageable
young ladies did not ask gentlemen to their home at such a late hour. He could have what he desired without marrying in order to get it.

Looking slyly up at him from under her lashes, Amelia saw the glint in his eye and wondered if she had gone too far, too soon.

No matter. When she had him alone—well, alone apart from Constance who didn’t count, she would lure him on just enough to tease him into marriage!

Philip watched her leave and then went in search of Peter who was engaged in munching a plate of rather stale-looking sandwiches. He was fanning himself absentmindedly with Constance’s fan. Lord Philip looked down at him with a smile of amusement curling his lips. “My dear Peter,” he drawled. “Have you joined the Macaroni set?”

“No!” said Peter, wildly looking down at his evening dress, expecting to find he had left something off or had put something too much on. “No, I’m all right, you know. Ain’t got high heels on my shoes, ain’t got the skirt of my coat boned, ain’t wearing a corset, ain’t…”

“The fan,” said Lord Philip gently interrupting this inventory. “You are fanning yourself with a lady’s fan.”

Peter looked at the pretty, painted fan with its slender ivory sticks in some amazement. Then his face cleared. “It’s Miss Lamberton’s,” he said. “I shall call on her and return it.”

“Let me do it for you,” said the friend. “I think you have paid Miss Lamberton quite enough attention for one evening!”

“Now you understand your instructions,” snapped Lady Amelia to Constance. “You are to sit in that corner and not interfere by look or deed. I am desirous of wedding my Lord Cautry, and should you do aught to put a spoke in my wheel you will find yourself in the streets begging for your bread. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Amelia,” said Constance, biting her lip to repress a sigh. Lady Amelia was her old, taciturn self since their return from the ball. She did not know that Amelia had noticed for the first time how pretty her companion had become, and did not like it one bit.

“Say, ‘Yes, my lady,’” ordered Amelia, “and take those stupid looking things out of your hair.” She wrenched the violets from their moorings and threw them on the fire.

Amelia narrowed her blue eyes as she stared at her companion. Something must be done to dim the girl’s looks. She rang the bell and demanded to see her lady’s maid.

When Eliot appeared, Amelia turned her cold blue eyes on her. “Eliot,” she commanded the lady’s maid, “You will go to my rooms with Miss Lamberton and make sure she changes into a dress befitting a chaperone. I have an old brown velvet which should do quite well. Hurry! I hear a carriage arriving.”

Lady Amelia was alone when Philip was ushered into the room. Amelia was torn between playing propriety and ringing for the tea tray, or offering my lord some strong drink to fortify him. She decided strong drink would answer better and informed her butler to fetch the brandy decanter. The brandy was excellent, better than Lord Philip had tasted for a long time.

“A present from one of my admirers,” smiled Amelia in answer to his query.

“The Comte Duval, no doubt,” murmured Lord Philip. “French brandy of this quality is hard to come by these days.”

“Well, he is my admirer no longer,” laughed Amelia. “He is paying ardent court to that Friday-faced General’s daughter, Fanny Braintree.”

Philip raised his eyebrows. “Indeed! Then it is a good thing our dear comte is a royalist. Were he a Bonapartist one would suspect his intentions. The General corresponds frequently with Wellesley, you know.”

“Oh that silly war,” yawned Amelia, dismissing the whole Peninsular campaign. “I wonder you want to talk about it, considering you spent two years in Spain and were wounded for your pains. Where were you wounded by the way? Anywhere that matters?”

Philip nearly dropped his glass. That was the sort of remark he would have expected from a Haymarket Cyprian. But he rallied quickly and was about to reply, when the door opened and Constance came quietly into the room. Philip got to his feet and bent punctiliously over her hand, and then returned her fan to her.

“Oh, thank you!” cried Constance with a radiant smile (“Just as if she were getting the crown jewels,” thought Amelia bitterly, “and just wait until I get my hands on Eliot!”)

For the lady’s maid’s idea of suitable attire for a companion was, indeed, a brown velvet dress, but not the old one that Amelia had meant. This was more gold than brown, highwaisted in the current mode and with a little stiff collar of gold lace at the neck. It brought out the gold flecks in Constance’s large eyes and flattered her slight figure.

Constance caught Amelia’s angry stare and retired to a ladder-backed chair in the far corner of the room with her work basket, took out her sewing, and proceeded to work diligently.

Amelia was sitting on a gilt and painted sofa which she had bought after seeing David’s painting of Madame de Recamier reclining on one like it. She leaned against the bolster cushion at one end and patted the space beside her invitingly. “Come and sit by me… Philip,” she said, looking at him with a lazy seductive smile.