The Frost Fair (12 page)

“The only one. And, really, Lady Meg, I am at my wit's end about what to do. Geoffrey refuses even to permit Mr. Lazenby to
call
on me!”

“That is most unkind of him,” Meg murmured.

Trixie, her underlip trembling in sincere anguish, turned her large eyes pleadingly up at Meg. “Oh, Lady Meg,
tell
me what to do!”

Meg stared down at her, nonplussed. As much as she would enjoy finding a way to block Geoffrey's absolute rule, it was not proper for her to interfere in matters which were not her concern. But the girl was in dire straits and seemed quite unable, by herself, to do battle with the overweening Sir Geoffrey. She needed help from
someone
. “Let me think about it, Trixie,” she said gently. “Perhaps I
can
think of something if I try.”

With a glad cry, Trixie jumped up, smothered Meg in a quick embrace and, happy tears flowing, ran from the room.

Absently, her mind still on Trixie's problem, Meg took out her mirror and resumed her efforts with her lashes. This completed, she studied her face in the hand-mirror to make sure that her appearance was suitably attractive for her purposes.
Yes
, she decided,
I
will do
. It was the best one could expect within the limitations of the raw material. Her chin was far too prominent for real beauty, and her skin was irritatingly disfigured by freckles, but there was nothing she could do about those shortcomings. As for the rest, she would do well enough.
Very well, Geoffrey
, she said to herself,
I
am quite ready for you
.

But no one knocked for hours.

By the time a tapping was again heard at her door, Meg had slumped down on the pillows and fallen into a doze. With a start, she sat erect and reached hurriedly for her mirror. Her hair was tousled and her mouth slack with sleep. Nervously, she smoothed her hair, adjusted her posture and her skirts, and bit some color and life back into her lips. “Come in,” she called sweetly when all was readied.

But this time it was Lady Carrier. The dowager sat down beside Meg and whiled away an hour of the afternoon with a detailed account of last night's card game in which she'd won from “dearest Isabel” the sum of two guineas. “It would have been a much more significant win if Geoffrey had permitted us to play
silver
-loo, but he won't hear of it. He says this is a private home, not a gaming hall. As if they don't play silver-loo in the very best houses in London, as I've told him more than once. But there's no use saying anything to Geoffrey once his mind's made up.”

It was twilight before the next knock sounded. Before inviting the visitor to enter, Meg hastily lit the candle on the table near the bed, for what was the good of fussing over her appearance if Geoffrey wouldn't be able to see her? But the visitor was only Sybil, who hung about in the doorway sniffing into a handkerchief. “I won't come in, Lady Meg,” she explained in a listless whine, “for I'm certain that I'm coming down with a putrid infection of the sinuses, and I don't wish to endanger your health, especially when you are already infirm. I've only come to pay my respects.”

“Thank you for coming, Sybil. Do go along and rest yourself. Perhaps by tomorrow we shall both be feeling more the thing,” Meg responded.

“
You'll
be feeling more the thing, very likely, but
I
shall be worse. Of that I'm quite certain,” the girl said and wandered off down the hall.

That visit was followed by one from her aunt. Then Mrs. Rhys brought her supper tray and, as the evening wore endlessly on, each of the previous callers returned to say their goodnights. By the time the hall clock had struck ten, Meg was convinced that the irritating Sir Geoffrey did not intend to call on her at all. All the trouble she'd taken with her appearance, all the plans she'd hatched in the dull stretches of the day, had been for naught. For this day at least, her quarry had eluded her.

Mrs. Rhys and Isabel helped her to undress, bid her a fond goodnight and shut the door. Meg sat awake, staring at the dying fire in glum chagrin for a long while, but then, with a sigh, she comforted herself with the thought that all was not lost. Tomorrow was another day. She would try again. If he still hadn't come by dinner time tomorrow, she would send for him. She would simply admit that she was tired of sitting in her bedroom and wished to be carried downstairs. If she could manage to convince him that employing the footman for that purpose was improper, he would have to take her up in his arms again. Her skirts would fall gracefully over his arms, her perfume would tantalize his senses, and her cheek would—quite accidentally, of course—brush against his. The poor fellow would be quite lost. She could wait until tomorrow.

To insure her coming success, she opened up her ormolu box and withdrew a tightly stoppered glass bottle. It contained a lotion which she'd purchased at the Pantheon bazaar but had never used—a lotion purported to do wonders for the skin. Made of cucumber water, extract of white flowers, green grape juice and a secret ingredient (which she'd learned by persistent questioning was oil extracted from the flesh of white pigeons), it was said to make the skin soft, supple, freckle-free and fragrant. The very thing needed by a lady who had—what was Aunt Bel's phrase?—passed her prime. She put on a nightcap, tucked her hair into it so that the lotion would not soil her shiny locks, and began to smear the stuff on her cheeks.

Just after she'd carefully covered every inch of her face with the thick greenish cream and had begun to rub it in, a knock sounded at the door. She froze in horror. It couldn't be! Not now! “Yes? Wh-who is it?” she asked quaveringly. But she knew the answer.

“You weren't asleep, were you?” Sir Geoffrey asked. “I saw the light under your door. I've brought you a sleeping draught. May I come in?”

“No! I don't
want
a sleeping draught,” she told him sullenly. “Go away!”

“Don't be childish. Your aunt told me that you suffered from bad dreams last night. She's just taken some herself. There's no good reason not to—”

She sighed helplessly. She couldn't refuse him admittance without seeming to be a petulant fool. Quickly, in the hope that the dying firelight would be enough illumination for him to make his way, she blew out the candles at her bedside and lowered her head so that the ruffle of her nightcap would shade her face. “Oh, very well,” she muttered, “come in if you must.”

He came in and approached the bed warily. “Why on earth did you blow out the candles?”

“I can see you well enough,” she said shortly, keeping her head turned away and thrusting out her hand for the glass.

But he didn't give it to her. “Can't you turn round and sit up properly?” he asked, puzzled. “You don't want to spill this stuff all over the sheets.”

Wincing in frustration, she sat up and, keeping her head lowered, took the glass from his hand. As she began to drink she was painfully conscious of his knit-browed stare at her averted face. It was quite typical of the man's irritating behavior that he'd waited until
this
moment to call on her. If he managed to get a good look at her face she might never be able to overcome the aversion he'd be bound to feel!

“Do you always wear a nightcap?” he asked companiably as he waited for her to drain the glass. “My sisters have led me to believe that only elderly frumps and housemaids would indulge in so antiquated a custom.”

“Since I am obviously neither a frump nor a housemaid,” she snapped (spoiling the effect of her haughty tone by her averted head), “your sisters must be mistaken.”

She put her full attention to swallowing the vile-tasting liquid in the glass. If she could gulp it down quickly, she might rid herself of her visitor before he noticed anything more damaging than a nightcap. But the taste was too strong to allow hasty ingestion, and she was forced to sip it slowly. As the level of the liquid in the glass declined, her head lifted in almost-imperceptible degrees, and before she realized that her position had changed, she heard him gasp. “Good Lord! What's the matter with your face?”

“Nothing! Nothing at all.” She turned away and held out the half-filled glass to him. “Here, take it. I don't want any more.”

“But … there's something green on your—”

“Oh, be still!” she ordered in disgust. “It's only a … a lotion.”

“Oh, is that all,” he said in relief. “I was afraid you'd contracted some dread disease.”

“Disease?” She couldn't refrain from throwing him a look of scorn. “What sort of disease did you imagine it was? Leprosy?”

He uttered a snorting laugh. “Yes, something like that. Whatever did you wish to accomplish with that dreadful stuff?” he asked, leaning down and peering at her face with amused interest.

Embarrassed and humiliated, she tried nevertheless to brazen it out. “It's for … for … removing freckles,” she said, putting up her chin and facing him courageously.

“Removing freckles? Why? What's wrong with freckles?”

“Surely even you, sir, must realize that freckles are disfiguring, and not at all in style.”

“Disfiguring?” he echoed in disgust. “You must be mad. And you wonder why I hold your sex in disrespect! Who with a grain of sense would care if freckles were in style? Who but a complete idiot would tell you they were disfiguring? I hope you don't discover to your sorrow that your precious lotion takes away your
skin
with the freckles it purports to remove!” He stalked to the door. “Women!” he intoned in disgust before he shut the door behind him.

Meg stared at the closed door nonplussed. Her encounters with her host were becoming a source of intense frustration. Would she
never
be able to bring the fellow under control? The rudesby had, for the second time, neglected to ask how she felt and hadn't even taken the trouble to bid her goodnight!

She touched with inquiring fingers the thick film of lotion on her cheeks.
I
must look a sight
! she thought ruefully. She'd probably ruined any chance she had of making a mark on him. He'd as good as called her an idiot!

Of course, if one examined his words carefully, one might find a nugget of hope—it was certainly clear that he didn't consider her freckles disfiguring. This didn't necessarily mean that he liked them, exactly, but there'd been something in his tone that suggested he'd been appalled to think she wanted to remove them. It wasn't much—especially when one compared his speech to words of men like Arthur who'd declared that her freckles were adorable—but it was the only bright spot she could discern in the otherwise abortive encounter. Even with the laudanum beginning to take effect, she couldn't feel cheered. But she didn't feel completely defeated either.

Chapter Nine

The next morning the sun came out in unexpected splendor, as if trying to make up in brilliance for its days of absence. It set to work at once on the snow blanketing the fields and trees, and the welcome tinkle of dripping water added a musical accompaniment to the sparkling day. Even the reflected light that danced in shimmering prismatic shapes on the walls of Meg's bedroom seemed to give off a diamond-like twinkle. If it weren't for the pain in her ankle, the boredom of her enforced confinement and the frustration of her lack of success with Sir Geoffrey, she would almost feel glad to be alive.

Sir Geoffrey sent word through Mrs. Rhys that a groom had made it on foot to Dr. Fraser's abode, and that the good doctor would make his way to Knight's Haven by that afternoon. In the meantime, to everyone's surprise, Lady Carrier's crony, the tall, angular Lady Habish, accompanied by her elder daughter Harriet (who was as tall and angular as her mother), appeared at the door. They had decided to slog on foot through the snow for the entire mile-and-a-half between their abode and the Carriers' to pay a call, having found the past two days of enforced solitude too confining for their sociable natures.

To their delight, they learned that there was more society at Knight's Haven than they'd expected. “The walk through the snow will certainly have been worth your while,” Lady Carrier told them excitedly, “for although you will hardly credit it, you are going to meet our
guests
. Yes, guests! The storm has brought us
two
distinguished ladies from London!”

After a lengthy explanation of the occurrences which had brought the visitors to her doorstep, Lady Carrier insisted that they all immediately repair to Meg's bedroom and become acquainted. Nothing less would do.

Chairs were brought by the footman and two maids and placed in a circle round Meg's bed, and all the females of the househood, with the two visiting neighbors, seated themselves for a morning of excited chatter. After the introductions, everyone spoke at once, for Lady Habish turned out to be as loquacious as her friend, and neither of them would remain silent long enough to permit the other to complete a sentence. Meanwhile, Trixie and the young Miss Harriet Habish put their heads together, whispering and giggling over their girlish confidences without the least concern for the presence of the others. And Sybil, ignoring all the noise, leaned back in her chair with her eyes closed, opening them only when she remembered—every half-minute or so—to blow her nose with delicate nicety into her lace handkerchief.

Meg and Isabel exchanged smiles of fond indulgence, for the group gathered round them seemed to characterize the naive charm of country society. The older ladies were so thoroughly engrossed in and excited by the trivialities of their restricted lives, the younger ones were so innocently mischievous about their secret flirtations, and even Sybil was so determinedly dramatic in her desire to be mysteriously ill that the London ladies found them all beguilingly bucolic.

But after half-an-hour of the noise, after having to listen to their babble about people and incidents she knew nothing of, after being forced to nod and smile in response to Lady Habish's platitudinous and unctuous compliments, Meg found them losing their charm. She began to wish that they'd leave her to herself. She began to feel horribly bored. She began—good God, was it possible?—to watch the door in the vain hope that Sir Geoffrey would make an appearance. She hated to admit it to herself, but she did wish he would come. He might be overbearing, insulting and arrogant, but at least he wasn't dull.