The Wagered Widow (26 page)

“Hmmn…” said Letitia, and went thoughtfully into the house.

She found de Villars standing at the window of the drawing room, looking into the street. Considering his tall, athletic figure dispassionately, she thought that although he was not handsome there was a magnetism about him that was undeniable. Had it not been for that wretched Constance Rogers, he would be wed these many years, and likely as sunny-natured as before he met the chit. She had done more than ruin him, for she had blighted that once delightful personality. And yet—perhaps it was purely wishful thinking, but of late it had seemed that his cynicism was a little less marked.

As though he sensed her presence, he turned and smiled wryly. “Am I in for a proper raking down, Letty?”

“I own you deserve one. However, I must admit to feeling more puzzled than censorious.”

His head a little bowed, he watched her steadily, waiting.

“One cannot but wonder,” she went on, “how you came by your reputation.”

“Unjustly,” he declared promptly.

“I agree. Surely, a genuine rake must handle these matters with far greater finesse.”

De Villars tensed, and a dark flush rose to his lean cheeks.

“That was clumsily done, coz,” Letitia murmured. “And no way to win the lady.”

A frown came into his eyes, but instead of the acid comment she half expected, he said nothing, resuming his surveillance of the street, so that only his profile was visible.

“One might almost think,” she went on softly, “that you do not really wish to—er, conquer The Little Parrish, as you call her.”

He glanced at this shy, quiet girl, wondering at her venture into so improper a conversation. She seemed to be anxiously awaiting his reply. He hesitated, then said musingly, “She is a worthy opponent. And—if a general changes his plans, love, defeat is not inevitable, I think.”

“Perhaps,” said Letitia idly, “Ward will intervene. I suspect he is most fond of the lady.”

“Perhaps. But the game is not over yet. Though it has taken a turn I'd not expected.”

The surgeon was announced, and came bustling in, demanding to inspect the cut across de Villars' chest. His patient protested hotly, but was borne off to his bedchamber nonetheless.

Left alone, Letitia knit her brows. It was so difficult to know what he was thinking. His last words may have been a verification of the hopes she had begun to entertain. On the other hand, was it her imagination, or had a sudden grimness come into his eyes as he spoke them?

*   *   *

Ward Marching's usual serenity was decidedly ruptured by Rebecca's return. After she emerged from Anthony's boisterous greeting, and the many hugs, kisses, and unintelligible chatter of Miss Patience Ashton, she was able to embrace her aunt and ease that lady's anxieties as to Snowden's safety. It was necessary that Rebecca feign cheer, for she was plagued by an apathy as puzzling as it was unfamiliar, but she had no need to feign interest in what had transpired during her brief absence. Anthony, it seemed, had driven Millie and the normally phlegmatic Evans to distraction with the flute Mr. de Villars had given him, so that it had been confiscated for a day or two. He and Patience had gone to explore the ruins of the original house, telling no one whither they were bound, and the little girl had tumbled through a rotten floor into the cellar. Fortunately, Mr. Melton had chanced to ride by and had been able to rescue her. Shocked, Rebecca gathered Patience into a hug and asked if she had hurt herself.

“Paythen not hurted,” the little girl lisped with a sweet if sticky smile. “But Anth'y a bad boy!”

His face scarlet, Anthony said defensively, “Well, for heaven's sake, I
had
to go and find help!” He turned to his mother in desperation. “The silly shrimp don't understand, mama! She thinks I run off and left her, but I didn't!”

“Of course you didn't, dear. But perhaps you should not have taken her to so dangerous a spot. When she is with you, Patience needs your judgement and protection, you know.”

The boy nodded shamefacedly. His sense of guilt was obvious. Rebecca judged it far more punishing than anything she might do, so turned to remark with a lurking smile that it was “exceeding fortunate that Mr. Melton chanced to be riding this way.…”

Mrs. Boothe lapsed into a blushful sea of confusion, from which Rebecca was able to extract the information that the bashful suitor had taken lodgings in the village and had been coming to call at least once each day. Later, when they were alone together, Mrs. Boothe admitted that despite this evidence of particularity, her swain had not as yet popped the question.

“There can no longer be any doubt that he means to do so,” said Rebecca supportively. “It must indicate a great interest to others, also.”

“Well, it might,” said her aunt dubiously. “Unless people think he just is staying for the ball.”

Rebecca said blankly, “Ball? But that is not until … My heavens! It is—oh! It is next
Friday!
”

“Yes, my love. And Sir Peter returns tomorrow, so Mrs. Kellstrand says. Have you brought your costume with you?”

“Costume!” wailed Rebecca, throwing both hands to her face. “With all the fuss and feathers of that horrid duel, I had quite forgot it!”

“Good gracious me! Well, you shall have to turn about and go to Town again. Madame Olga will—”

“I dare not face that woman again! Not with all her bills hiding in my drawer at home! And there is no time for Falk to make something; besides which there is never any telling whether her garments will fit properly! What on
earth
am I to do?”

“Oh, Lud! Oh, Lud!” cried the warm-hearted Mrs. Boothe, equally as dismayed. She gave a sudden squeak of excitement. “I have it! Graham Fortescue! He is such a Pink of the
ton,
he's sure to know where you could purchase—”

“He is gone away!” Rebecca wailed tragically. “And I know not when he will come back.”

At this point, Evans waddled into the parlour bearing tea and biscuits on a small tray which she proceeded to set with a thump on the sofa table. The country woman's lethargic ways and unpolished manners had been a source of considerable irritation to Millie during their sojourn in Bedfordshire. She was, asserted the energetic Millie, as clumsy as a cow and of the same order of intelligence. It had early become apparent, however, that Evans was as amiable as she was bovine, took criticism with never a sign of offence, and although she might accomplish an assigned task at a snail's pace, was ever willing to undertake it. Gradually, she had won her way into their affections, and perhaps because of her stolid manner her presence often went unremarked so that conversation was less guarded in front of her.

In desperation, therefore, Mrs. Boothe did not hesitate to suggest that there might be something that could be constructed from their present wardrobes so as to serve the purpose.

“There is nothing I could alter so as to wear to a fancy dress ball!” wailed Rebecca. “They
do
all wear costumes, do they not, Evans?”

“Aye, ma'am. And some
that
laughable! Belike you could sew one your own self, Mrs. Parrish.”

Rebecca uttered a moan. “There is not the time, and besides, I am not clever with a needle, nor ever was. Aunt Albinia, what do
you
mean to wear?”

“Why, I have begged a uniform of Evans. I mean to go as an abigail. I thought 'twould be jolly.”

“And a jolly time we've had a'taking of it in, for Mrs. Boothe lacks half my inches,” said Evans with a chuckle. She closed the window against the evening's cooler air. “Be ye wishful to borrow some clothes, Mrs. Parrish, 'tis a pity ye cannot use some of they pretty things o' Sir Peter's.”

“Dress like a
male?
” Much shocked, Mrs. Boothe exclaimed, “Are you quite witless, woman? Mrs. Forbes Parrish would never do such a thing!”

Evans went into such whoops at this, that the sight of her bulk shivering and shaking moved the two ladies to answering giggles. Drying tearful eyes, she said that she had meant nothing of the kind. “Dear me, no, ma'am. I were meaning the clothes in the Fiji Room. Hasn't Sir Peter taked you there yet?” She shook her head. “Likely so busy with showing ye all the birdies, he forgot the best part. Belike ye'll be going for a walk in the morning, ye could ask Mrs. Kellstrand to show you.”

The ladies lost no time in following this suggestion and, shortly after eleven o'clock next day, Rebecca was asking the housekeeper if they might see the Fiji Room. Mrs. Kellstrand tilted her shining white head in such obvious perplexity that Rebecca prompted, “Evans said Sir Peter has some beautiful garments in there.”

The housekeeper laughed. “Oh—she must mean the Hall of Effigies! But of course you may see it.” She led the way to the top floor of the great house, motioning to two of the lackeys to follow. “How quiet it is up here,” she said when they had surmounted the last flight of stairs. “I sometimes think Sir Peter quite forgets this floor, for he has lived so quietly of recent years that we seldom put out covers for guests, and these suites go quite unused.” Checking through the keys that hung at her waist, she added, “I expect you have heard, Mrs. Parrish, that his fiancée died in an accident six years ago, which quite broke the poor man's heart. But before that tragedy we had many jolly parties, and this floor fairly hummed with company. Here we are!”

She unlocked wide Gothic doors, opened one side, and stood back for the ladies to enter. The lackeys who had brought up the rear of the little procession hastened to draw curtains and open windows, and Rebecca and her aunt gazed in astonishment at the extraordinary sight laid out before them.

At first glance the room seemed full of people, but a closer look revealed that the occupants stood extremely still, no faintest breath stirring the luxurious garments they wore. The room was long, with high arched ceilings, and in the middle of one wall a vaulting stone fireplace. The figures were grouped about; some ten or twelve little knots disposed here and there in conversational attitudes. With a cry of wonder, Rebecca hastened to inspect a gentleman clad in cape and doublet, white hose upon his somewhat knobby legs, and a black cloth hat with a white plume set realistically upon the dark wig.

“Why,” she gasped. “How alive they look!”

“Extreme alive,” agreed Mrs. Boothe, drawing back uneasily from a regal dowager in a farthingale of green silk, all set about with pearls, and wearing a jewelled tiara on her powdered hair. “I wonder they do not get dusty up here!”

“They are usually kept under Holland covers,” Mrs. Kellstrand explained, in her soft, cultured voice. “We unveiled them today, in preparation for the ball, for some of the guests are sure to want to come up here. And they look so lifelike, ladies, because the hands and faces are of wax, you see. Is it not clever? I believe several great artisans worked on the collection. Sir Peter's grandpapa started it so as to keep a memory of his favourite uncle—the naval officer in the corner—and very soon, other figures were added. On Public Days this is the most popular room in the house, and we have to rope off a path so that the clothes and figures may not be damaged by curiosity.”

“The workmanship is exquisite,” said Rebecca, admiring the half-smile on the face of a pretty damsel in a ruff and jewelled stomacher. “Do they actually resemble real people, or was that not possible?”

“Only the original gentleman was fashioned to a likeness, ma'am. My Lord Samuel Ward found the resemblance unnerving, which is why his uncle speaks to the lady in blue brocade in the secluded corner. Subsequent effigies were designed at the whim of the artist, but the garments are true to the various periods, so that the collection has become a re-creation of times and fashions past, rather than a remembrance of friends or relatives.”

Fascinated by a bold young man attired in short tunic and extremely tight hose, Mrs. Boothe murmured, “It is astonishing that
everything
looks so real!” Rebecca smothered a giggle. Mrs. Boothe blushed scarlet and added hurriedly, “It must have cost a prodigious amount, but—is a shade eerie.”

“I assure you, ma'am, that to come up here in the dusk, or at night, can be
very
eerie!”

Rebecca was inspecting an Elizabethan lady whose gown boasted a very high-standing collar of jewelled brocade, behind which were butterfly wings supporting a flowing veil. “My heavens,” she breathed. “What a large farthingale. However could they have moved about, or sat, I wonder, in hoops of such a size.”

“That would be a fine costume for you,” said Mrs. Boothe, eyeing the wide skirts thoughtfully. “I've no doubt you could manage it, Becky, and the size looks close enough.”

Mrs. Kellstrand asked uneasily, “Had you wished to borrow a gown, Mrs. Parrish?”

Rebecca turned to her eagerly. “Not if it is forbidden, of course. It is that—well, I am so recently come out of blacks that I've had little time to replenish my wardrobe. And there was not the time to order a gown for the ball.”

How prettily appealing, thought Mrs. Kellstrand, were the great dark eyes fixed so hopefully upon her. She had a fair idea of why Sir Peter had found it “impossible” to hire a suitable governess for the small cousin who had been foisted upon him. If Mrs. Parrish was to be the new mistress of Ward Marching, what folly to antagonize her. Summoning her most gracious smile, therefore, she said, “I think you would look charmingly in this gown, especially with your dark hair and eyes.”

She led the way to a Spanish lady wearing figured red velvet, the long free-hanging outer sleeves edged with white fur. The gown was superb, but Rebecca cried, “Why, it is the biggest farthingale of all! Oh, I could never wear it! How are the hoops called?”

“It is a wheel farthingale, ma'am, and I'll own it enormous. You would certainly attract attention.”