The Determined Bachelor (15 page)

“Nurse!” Is not your mistress at home?”

The woman looked up indifferently, shrugged her plump shoulders, and then, seeing she was expected to do something, reluctantly rose to her feet.

“Shall go and see,” muttered she, traipsing off.

The sound of a strangled giggle made Anne look down to see her own pupil quite crimson in the face and looking as if she might burst apart from holding her breath. Sir Basil heard it too and, glancing down, made an extraordinary gesture. The wink was so fleeting it was almost imperceptible, but Anne saw it—else she could not have believed her eyes—and Nicole saw it, too. The effect upon the child was to lose all interest in anything else save her guardian. Loosing her grip on Anne's hand, which she had held tightly since coming into the mansion, she made a timorous essay at that of Sir Basil. His long slender fingers wrapped themselves awkwardly about the little paw, as if unused to the action. So engrossed was she in watching this little scene, that Anne barely noticed that the other children had stopped playing and were gaping at the group in the doorway.

“Ah!” exclaimed Sir Basil after a moment, evidently at a loss for what else to say. “Ah! Little Harry, is not your mama at home?”

The little girl, who had edged up close beside her brother, seemed to find this question vastly amusing, for she nudged Harry and burst into a fit of giggles.

“Tsh!” said Harry to his sister, nudging her back. “Hush, Clara—it is Uncle Basil.”

“I know that, stupid!” replied the little girl, and giggled again.

This was the extent of the conversation for some moments. Sir Basil seemed to be arranging his ideas, or perhaps he was hoping that some other adult would appear to rescue him. His prayers were answered, for eventually a step was heard in the corridor and Lady Hargate materialized, as if from nowhere.

The Countess was dressed in a billowy gown of pale pink lace, with half a dozen ribbons in her pale curls. She looked, as Anne noted later in her journal, “exactly like a debutante, one of those frilly, foolish girls who used to appear always at the Assemblies at home, and were transformed overnight, as soon as they were wed, into sour old women. Save that Lady
Hargate has not taken note of the change in her situation and continues as if she is eighteen, nodding and bobbing and throwing about her hands in the most flirtatious manner. She could not leave off glancing up from beneath her eyelashes at Sir Basil, as if she were trying to make him dance with her. Sir Basil, as may be imagined, seemed to find the whole charade shocking, and as little as I saw of him all evening, he seemed always to be hiding from her eyes, and endeavouring to stop her high-pitched laughter from reaching his ears.”

“Oh la!” cried she, immediately she had glimpsed them. “Lord, Basil, I did not expect you so soon! Dear me, and have you been subjected very long to these noisy children—” with a coquettish glance at her offspring—“dear me, I am sure I do not know what to say!”

“Say nothing then, Louisa,” replied Sir Basil in an undertone, which luckily she did not catch. “We have only been here this five minutes. But did not you say five o'clock? And it is now half past the hour if I am not mistaken.”

“Oh, la! Is it, indeed? Why! I am sure I said six, so that the children could dine first. Ah, well. I am such a muddle-brained creature, to be sure—” with yet another coquettish upward glance from beneath her eyelashes—“But you must forgive me, my dearest Basil. But! Why on earth have you been shown in
here?
I am sure I left instruction that
you
should be shown into the Green Saloon. The young lady and her charge may stay here if they like, but I am sure
you
ought to be settled better!”

“Why, I am quite all right here, Louisa.” Sir Basil glanced apologetically at “the young lady,” who was only smiling demurely and noting everything. “I thought it was to be only a family supper, in any case.”

“Oh! To be sure!” cried Lady Hargate, “a mere nothing! Only six courses, and in the small dining room, you know. Still, Brother—” taking his arm in an intimate manner—“I cannot allow His Excellency, the Ambassador, to be entertained in such a kind of way. It is only a family supper, to be sure, but I have asked one or two great friends to come as well. The Princess Lieven, you know, and the Russian Ambassador, and of course, my sister. You do remember my sister, do you not?”

Anne thought, from catching a glimpse of his expression as he bowed and said that of course he remembered her, that his memory was not all delightful. But Sir Basil, if he could be accused of many things, could never have been faulted for
his manners. If they were not as easy and happy as some might have wished, they were at any rate, impeccable. Impeccably cold, in this case, Anne could not help observing. Yet he managed to bow and smile as often as was required, and seeing that he was destined to be taken into the Green Saloon, followed his sister-in-law out of the room with only a tiny backward glance at Nicole and the nurse.

“And Miss Lessington?” he inquired before he was escorted away.

“Oh,
she
shall be perfectly well! Lord! The three of them shall be so amused, they shall not want for anything, and Nurse shall see to them.”

“And Miss Calder?”

“Miss Calder?” Lady Hargate did not quite remember who
she
was. “Oh! To be sure, Miss Calder! Why, she may dine below stairs with Nurse and the housekeeper, if she don't wish to dine with my little babies.”

Anne was forced to look down to hide her smile upon hearing
this
, and so she did not meet the eyes which searched out her own, full of apologies and mortification, and were then called back again to attend to the vanities of the Countess.

The remainder of the evening, as may well be imagined, was not, at least for our heroine, memorable for anything save mortification and boredom. Had she known what kind of an effect the whole entertainment had upon the Baronet, however, she might have been more grateful for her plate of cold mutton and brussels sprouts, taken, in the end, upon her lap on a tray in the same room, whilst Nicole watched her cousins in silence, and they stared back with smirks and grins. Nicole, little lady that she was, would not condescend to their level of play, but sat instead thumbing over a great book of coloured plates, and whenever she was unnoticed, crept over to her governess to be comforted. The Earls' children soon grew bored with her and ran upstairs to pursue their own more boisterous forms of play, whilst the nurse slept throughout the whole in her chair with an occasional snore issuing from her lips to attest to the depth of her slumbers.

But if Nicole and her governess were prevented from eavesdropping upon the more lively scene in another part of the house, we are not obliged to keep them company, but may pass through the great walls with as much ease as if they had been made of gauze, rather than two feet of stone and
plaster. In truth, the scene in the Green Saloon may have been more lively, but it was not much more pleasant, at least for some of the company. The echoes of laughter and conversation which filtered through to Anne's ears, and which filled her with more envy than she would admit, were deceptive. They issued chiefly from the lips of Lady Hargate and her sister, who, if it was possible, was even more gushing than her sister, though with a darker complexion and a more purposeful set of eyes. Of the four ladies in the room, the Princess Lieven was the only real beauty, being very dark and small, with striking eyes and a darting, birdlike way of moving.
She
spoke hardly at all, save in an undertone to Sir Basil, whom she had come to see in spite of her loathing for his brother and sister-in-law. Her husband, the Russian Ambassador, was a small square man with a diffident expression, and an air about him of giving way in every matter of importance to his wife. He wore Hessians, in the manner of the Russians, although it was an evening party, and a white military coat encrusted with gold ornaments. Having exchanged a few words with his colleague, he sat out the rest of the evening stiffly in his chair without a word. Lord Hargate endeavoured to make him talkative, but was repelled for his efforts, and at last departed for the more amiable environment of Lord and Lady Applegate, who possessed one of the most magnificent country seats amongst the peerage, and not another stroke to recommend them, save their great wealth, their lofty titles, and faces as bland and passive as peasants.

Sir Basil, meanwhile, was caught between his sister-in-law and Miss Newsome, who, having engaged him in conversation, would not leave him alone. She was a handsome enough young woman, who had somehow escaped matrimony in her eight seasons in Town. Lady Hargate was determined to make her a wife now, and from that young woman's expression, and the forward way in which she addressed Sir Basil, it was evident that she had no great objection to the scheme.

Lady Hargate had had two motives for her little dinner party—the first was to marry off her sister to her husband's brother, and the second was to parade Sir Basil before the Princess Lieven. If she meant to discommode her friend, however, she had little success. The Princess enjoyed the well-deserved reputation of being the prettiest, wittiest lady in London, and was so sure of her own stature in the
ton
that she had not hesitated to be the first to dance the brazen new
waltz when it had first been introduced in London. That she received the attentions of two royal dukes was an ill-kept secret—that is to say, secret only from those who could not profit from the intelligence—and she had been upon bantering, if not intimate, terms with Sir Basil for some years. She was therefore not at all put out by her hostess's blatant attempts to make her envious and, on the contrary, only a little more bored than she was amused by the charade.

“Why, is it not a delightful thing to have Basil amongst us once again?” inquired her hostess in a simpering tone when she saw that Sir Basil's attentions were thoroughly taken up by her sister. “Lord, I can hardly believe how we have amused ourselves since he went away! How dreary it has been, to be sure! Every ball has lacked brilliance, every dinner has been without animation!”

“And yet I have not observed
you
staying away, Your Ladyship,” returned the Princess, who would not condescend to call Lady Hargate by her first name, though she had been urged to do so half a dozen times.

“Oh! It is all so dreadfully boring!” sighed Lady Hargate. “What is one to do? Why, I believe I ought really to stay at home more often with my dear little children. I am sure they are far more amusing than all the assembled personages at Almack's!”

This sally, which had been meant as a jest, was a mistake, as Lady Hargate quickly saw. The Princess Lieven raised one eyebrow, and smiled.

“I did not realize we made such a dull collection,” she murmured dryly.

“Oh! In truth, you know I was not serious. It is only the
ennui
of winter that I feel coming on. I do so adore bright weather, do not you, Princess?”

The Princess seldom saw enough of daylight to care if the weather was bright or dark, but she smiled in reply.

Mais oui, Madame, c'est vraiment domage quand les temps ne font beaux.”

“
Oui, oui, c'est horrible,”
murmured Lady Hargate in reply, eager to prove that her French did not consist merely of one or two fashionable phrases.

But the Princess Lieven had turned away, as bored with her hostess as Lady Hargate professed to be with the assemblies at Almack's. Lady Hargate was forced to turn her attention back to her sister's progress with Sir Basil, and overheard the following dialogue:

“And now, I suppose, you must return to Paris instantly?” inquired Miss Newsome, having satisfied herself upon every point of the Baronet's house in Regent's Terrace, his appointments with the Prince, and his health.

“Why, no. I shall stay yet a while.”

“Ah!” One dark eyebrow arched up. What had been a decidedly petulant look, changed suddenly to one of bright hope. “Ah! How fortunate we are! Louisa, did not you say Sir Basil had only come to London for a fortnight? I am sure you did, and I am most put out by it, too, for had I known we should be able to count him amongst the company at Almack's, I should have ordered that lavender satin gown after all. My old dresses are quite good enough for everyone else, but for Sir Basil, I should have gone the extra length.”

“Tut, child,” returned her sister, “your blue lace and your daffodil silk are perfectly charming. I am sure you are the prettiest woman in the company in either of them. Sir Basil will be delighted with you in any case, shall you not, my dear Basil?”

“My dear Basil,” indifferent to lavender satin and daffodil silk alike, replied that he was sure he would be, if he had any ambitions of dancing at Almack's, which alas he did not.

“What! Not dance at Almack's!” cried the sisters in unison. Why, whatever could he mean by that?

“But, of course, Louisa,” remarked the younger of the two, whose understanding was a little keener than her sister's, “Sir-Basil means only that he prefers to play at cards. But I am sure he will allow us to coax him up from his table from time to time to join in the dancing.”

“Were I any more addicted to gaming than to dancing, Miss Newsome, I could certainly be coaxed. But cards hold no fascination for me.”

Here was a conundrum indeed. Miss Newsome had never encountered a man who hated
both
dancing and cards, unless he were one of your avid outdoorsmen, who could never enjoy a diversion which required him to stay within above an hour at a clap. But Sir Basil did not in the slightest resemble such a man—his whiskers were cut too close, his coat was cut too fine, and his whole person, though it was very handsome and well-formed, did not conform to that broad-shouldered and muscular type. Miss Newsome, indeed, had been careful to ask him straight away whether or not he liked fox hunting, lest she place herself at once at a disadvantage by confessing too quickly to either an aversion or a love for the sport. Sir
Basil had replied that he did not mind it, but that he tended always to side more with the fox than its hunters: a response which perplexed his inquisitor more than it satisfied her.