Sir Philip's Folly (The Poor Relation Series Book 4) Page 10

  Arabella went and unlocked the door.

  “He doesn’t care a rap for me,” she said passionately.

  Miss Tonks looked sympathetic but she said, “You did bring it on yourself, Arabella. What prompted you to flirt in that bold way with Mr. Davy?”

  “He did not sit next to me,” muttered Arabella.

  “But how could he, my dear? You already had Mr. Davy on one side and me on the other.”

  “I suppose that is that.” Arabella shrugged, preferring not to answer the question. “Mama will never agree to my going to that ball anyway.”

  “That is why I am come. Now you are to do exactly as Sir Philip orders. I know it will sound most odd, but he has never failed us yet.”

  A look of hope gleamed in Arabella’s large eyes.

  “What must I do?”

  “You must brush down your hair and be sure to wear a white dress. You must stand by your window and look down into Bond Street and you must look wistful. You are occasionally to dab at your eyes with a handkerchief.”

  “What on earth is that man about?”

  “I know it sounds mad. It does so to me,” said Miss Tonks earnestly. “But please do it. I have brought the first volume of the latest novel from the circulating library and I will read to you to pass the time.”

  “It seems so silly…”

  “Please do as he says.”

  Arabella began to laugh. “Very well. Do you think he wants me to look like the princess in the ivory tower so as to melt Mama’s heart?”

  “Possibly. Now sit down at the toilet-table and I will help to brush your hair.”

  ***

  To Sir Philip’s delight, the coffee room at Limmer’s was full of bucks and Corinthians, Fops, and Pinks of the Fancy. He ordered wine, sat down at a table, and heaved a great theatrical sigh.

  Mr. Fotheringay and Mr. Dessel stopped at his table and stared down. “What’s up, Sommerville?” drawled Mr. Fotheringay. “Got the blue devils?”

  “It’s a tragedy,” said Sir Philip, shaking his head. “Breaks my heart.”

  “You ain’t got a heart to break,” commented Mr. Dessel with a loud guffaw. “I say.” He addressed the room at large. “Sommerville has had his heart broken.”

  The men lounged up to the table, grinning, picking their teeth, flicking their snuff-boxes and waving their handkerchiefs. Amused voices called on Sir Philip to elaborate.

  “It’s like something out of a Haymarket tragedy,” said Sir Philip, privately and gleefully noticing that he now had a large audience. “Lady Carruthers is resident at my hotel. She has a beautiful daughter.”

  Cries of “You old rake!”

  Sir Philip held up his small white hands for silence. “Silence, gentlemen. Arabella Carruthers is only nineteen. She is so beautiful, Lady Carruthers is frightened that if she exposes this treasure to the world, then no one will look at her.”

  “Painted trollop,” commented Mr. Fotheringay. “Wouldn’t look at her anyway.”

  “Such is her great vanity, she don’t know that. So she keeps this diamond of the first water locked up day and night in a hotel bedroom. So me and my partners decided on a plan to bring the girl out ourselves. We are holding a grand subscription ball—tickets fifty guineas, only the cream invited—and the Prince Regent is to attend. But has this melted Lady Carruthers’s flinty heart? Not a bit of it.”

  “You’re bamming us,” jeered Mr. Dessel.

  “Go along Bond Street,” urged Sir Philip, “and stand opposite the hotel and look up. She stands there by the window, day in and day out.”

  There were cries to the effect that they would all go and have a look at Sir Philip’s charmer.

  Gleefully, Sir Philip followed the crowd of men along Bond Street. He looked up at the hotel windows and heaved a sigh of relief.

  Arabella could be quite clearly seen. Her shining hair fell about her shoulders, and even from the distance of across the road, it could be seen that her beautiful face was sad and wistful.

  Most of the men who watched in startled silence were brutal products of an age of hard drinking, wenching and fighting. But this was also the age of sentimentality when men prided themselves on the soft hearts that so few of them really had. “It is so tragic,” cried Mr. Dessel and began to sob. Mr. Fotheringay, not to be outdone, took out a cambric handkerchief the size of a bed sheet and blew his nose loudly.

  More gentlemen stopped and joined the crowd. It was all very exciting to the Bond Street loungers, better than a play.

  “Miss Tonks, it is very embarrassing,” said Arabella over her shoulder. “All these men are staring up at me and some of them are crying.”

  “Is Sir Philip among them?”

  “Yes, he keeps stopping more gentlemen and pointing up at me.”

  “Oh, I know what he is doing,” cried Miss Tonks. “Here is a pretty little handkerchief. Now you must slowly raise it to your eyes and dab them.”

  “How long do I have to do this?”

  “I should think until your mama returns.”

  ***

  Lady Carruthers was feeling somewhat pleased with herself. She had made several calls and she knew a new dinner-gown would be waiting for her at the hotel. She had heard of the earl’s return and planned to dazzle him in the dining-room that evening. She was just reflecting that she had been too hard on Arabella—she would send the girl back to the country—when her carriage arrived outside the Poor Relation. It was an open carriage, so the men on the other side of the road had a good view of her, as did Arabella, who cried to Miss Tonks, “Here’s Mama.”

  Miss Tonks ruthlessly pulled her away from the window, and a loud cry of “Shame!” went up from the watchers.

  “Here is Lady Carruthers now,” said Sir Philip. “Boo!”

  Bewildered, Lady Carruthers descended from the carriage and stared across the road at the angry faces, heard the loud hisses and boos, and then turned and ran into the hotel.

  By the time she reached her apartment, Miss Tonks had gone and Arabella was once more locked in her room.

  Lady Carruthers succumbed to a strong fit of hysterics while her maid tried to soothe her. At the end of half an hour, she relapsed into a morose silence.

  “Sir Philip Sommerville,” announced her footman from the doorway.

  “We are not at home,” said Lady Carruthers despite the fact that Sir Philip was standing in the open doorway and could hear every word.

  Unfazed, Sir Philip walked in, flipped up his coat-tails and sat down.

  “This is an outrage,” cried Lady Carruthers.

  “I come to help you, my lady,” said Sir Philip, not budging an inch. “Do you not want to know why all the gentlemen in Bond Street were hissing you and booing you?”

  “The behaviour of louts does not concern me.”

  “They were not louts, and by tonight,” pursued Sir Philip, “the story will be all over London.”

  She looked at him uneasily. “What story?” she asked.

  “How you keep your beautiful daughter locked in her room, how you never take her anywhere, how you dress her in a child’s clothes… need I go on?”

  “Who has been spreading such scurrilous lies?”

  “Hotel servants will talk. We all know Miss Carruthers is not ill, as you claim.”

  “Pray leave. You are impertinent.”

  He shook his head sadly. “You could have had my help. Now how are you to face the world when you next go out? No more cards will arrive for you and you will be as isolated as your daughter. Furthermore, the Prince Regent is to attend our ball. Unless you repair your reputation and do it quickly, then, for the sake of the good name of our hotel, we cannot invite you, even though the main purpose of the ball was to bring your daughter out.”

  Lady Carruthers went pale under her rouge. She could think of no worse fate than being socially ostracized. The full impact of his words finally sank in.

  “What am I to do?” she asked weakly.

  “You have an enga
gement for this evening?”

  “Yes. The Macleans’ rout.”

  “Then take your daughter, dress her well, put her hair up, show every evidence of being the doting mother and maintain the fiction that she has just got over an illness.”

  Arabella, listening on the other side of the door, pressed her ear harder against the panels.

  And then she heard her mother say with an obvious effort, “Very well. I will follow your advice.”

  Sir Philip’s heart softened as it always did when he got his own way. He stood up. “You know,” he said, putting his head on one side and surveying her, “you’d be a fine figure of a woman if you dressed your age.”

  ***

  The earl was not in the dining-room and so missed the splendid sight of Miss Arabella Carruthers in a dainty white gown ornamented with silk rose-buds and with a coronet of roses in her shining hair. Arabella felt quite cast down. She had been so excited at the thought of seeing him.

  But it was exciting later to be out in the wicked London streets joining all the other Fashionables who were going out for the evening. Arabella had never been to a rout. For a brief while she forgot about the earl and her yearnings for him and looked forward to her first London social engagement.

  A Regency rout was not an elegant affair. The purpose of it was to invite as many people as possible and cram as many people as possible into one house. Success was ensured if it were called “a sad crush.” Their carriage lined up with the other carriages waiting to draw up outside the Macleans’ house. Coachmen fought with each other for positions, carriages inched forward; outside, the rain began to fall, sad, steady rain which drummed on the carriage roof.

  Arabella began to fret that the party would be over by the time they arrived, but when the carriage finally drew up at the house, Arabella, looking out, saw the rooms filled with guests, for all the curtains were drawn back, as they always were at a rout.

  Holding her skirts high so that they would not be soiled by the wet pavement, Arabella scurried indoors beside her mother. They left their cloaks in an ante-room and then joined the long queue on the staircase who were waiting to go above-stairs to pay their respects to the hostess. People trying to get up shoved and jostled and people trying to get down shoved and jostled. One lady trying to get down was pushed from behind and fell forward and the people in front of her tumbled forward also, down into the hall like so many dominoes. One lady lay on the hall floor with her skirts above her head, exposing her bare bottom. The men in front and behind Arabella caused more fuss by trying to get a better view.

  The air was suffocatingly warm and redolent of sweat, unwashed bodies, and all the latest scents on the market—Suave, Sans Pareille, Vento’s Italian Water, Cannes and Miss in her Teens. There was also a strong smell of musk from the pastilles that a great number sucked to counteract the smell from their rotting teeth.

  Gradually Arabella became used to being openly stared at. By the time they reached the drawing-room, she was feeling crumpled and jaded. Lord and Lady Maclean were standing by the fireplace.

  “And this is your daughter,” cried Lady Maclean. “Beautiful. Quite beautiful. Such tales we have heard,” she added archly. “We heard you were a prisoner.”

  “I had a touch of the fever and had to be confined to my room,” said Arabella to her mother’s infinite relief.

  “You will break hearts,” said Lord Maclean.

  Arabella and Lady Carruthers moved away to talk to the other guests before beginning the battle downwards again. They were immediately surrounded by gentlemen. Arabella, at first startled and then gratified by all the compliments and attention, began to glow. Lady Carruthers was experiencing the novelty of being the centre of a group of adoring courtiers, and although their interest was obviously not in her, it was miles better than being isolated. For the first time she realized properly that her daughter was first-class bait. While Arabella chatted easily, maintaining the fiction that she had been ill, her eyes occasionally glanced this way and that, looking for the tall figure of the earl. But there was no flash of blue eyes or glint of guinea gold hair. Beginning to feel a little cast down again, she accepted an invitation from Mr. Fotheringay to go driving in the Park the following afternoon.

  They finally said their goodbyes and joined the crowd going down the stairs, where Arabella discovered the other horror of a London rout, which was standing on the doorstep for half an hour waiting for the carriage to be brought round.

  “That went very well,” said Lady Carruthers graciously. “I am glad now that I decided to take you about.”

  “This ball,” said Arabella cautiously, “that is to be held in the hotel…?”

  Lady Carruthers manufactured a yawn and affected boredom. “Oh, I suppose we must attend.” And a happy Arabella was diplomatically prepared to leave it at that.

  “Faith, an early night at last,” said Lady Carruthers when they arrived at the hotel. “It is only midnight. But a good night’s sleep will refresh me. We must order a wardrobe for you. It is a pity I gave you permission to go driving with young Fortheringay, for you will need fittings. Fotheringay is all very well, but you can do better.”

  Arabella waited impatiently until her mother had retired for the night. Would there be anyone above-stairs in the sitting-room? Would the earl be there?

  At last unable to wait any longer, she scampered up the stairs, knocked at the sitting-room door and opened it. The room was dark and shadowy, lit only by the red gleam from the dying fire.

  She was reluctant to leave, reluctant to believe that the evening was over.

  She moved into the room, the train of her dress whispering over the floor. She thrust a taper between the bars of the grate and lit the candles on the mantelpiece and stared at her wavering reflection in the glass. A drowned face stared back at her from the old mirror.

  She gave a little sigh and then went to the piano. Holding the taper, she lit the candles in their brass brackets, then sat down and began to play.

  ***

  The earl had gone to the rout after Arabella had left and heard on all sides about London’s newest beauty. Mr. Fotheringay was bragging loudly that he had stolen a march on them all. So the miracle had happened. The awful Sir Philip had said he would get Arabella out and it seemed he had succeeded. The earl did not stay long. He had walked, despite the rain, being too countrified to submit to fashion and arrive in a carriage. There had been many eligible misses at the rout and yet he had not spent much time with any of them. He would need to start searching in earnest for a wife. But the evening had been dull. If he had gone to that odd hotel sitting-room, perhaps he might have been able to dance with Arabella… But Arabella was now out and Arabella would be flirting and dancing with every man in London. Immersed in his thoughts, he took a short cut down a dark alley leading through to Bond Street and almost did not see the two thugs who were set to waylay him until it was almost too late. As it was, he came to his senses and drew his sword-stick. He fenced and feinted on the slippery cobbles, keeping his back to a wall, avoiding the blows from the cudgel of one and making sure the other had no opportunity to creep round behind him.

  At last he thrust the blade into one man’s arm and swung round looking for the other. But the wounded man’s companion had fled. The earl walked on. This was London. Full of footpads and smells and posturers and silly little misses.

  He marched into the hotel and up to his apartment where his man relieved him of his wet hat and greatcoat. “And clean my sword, Gustav,” said the earl. “There is blood on it.”

  “Have we been attacked, my lord?”

  “Yes, an everyday occurrence. No, I am not yet ready for bed.”

  He hesitated in the middle of his sitting-room. He wondered if the poor relations were still awake. It would be fun to find out how Sir Philip had achieved the miracle, even though the thought that he himself had refused to help Arabella still made him feel shabby.

  He left his apartment and climbed the stairs, hearing, w
ith a lightening of the heart, the jaunty strains of a waltz.

  He looked in at the sitting-room door. Arabella was playing the piano. He crossed the room quietly and stood beside her. She glanced up and her fingers stumbled into silence on the keys.

  “Where is everyone?” he asked.

  “Gone to bed a long time ago, I think,” she said. “Oh, such wonderful news. I have been to a rout this evening.”

  “So I understand. I arrived at the Macleans’ after you had gone. Come and sit down in front of the fire and tell me how Sir Philip achieved such success.”

  She sat down on the sofa next to him, hardly able to believe that he was here with her and seeing her in all her finery. “It is vastly amusing, now I think about it,” said Arabella. “After Mama had left this afternoon, Sir Philip sent Letitia, Miss Tonks, with instructions that I was to brush my hair down and wear a white dress and stand by the window and look down into the street. This I did. Then I saw a large group of men, all looking up. Sir Philip was there among them. When Mama arrived, they all began to boo and hiss. Then Sir Philip called on Mama and said the story was about Town that she had been keeping me confined and that unless she did something about it, her reputation would be ruined. He even said”—Arabella stifled a giggle—“that if she did not repair her reputation, then she could not attend the ball, as they had the good name of the hotel to think of. So I was put into one of Mama’s very best gowns, as you can see, and taken to the rout.

  “It was not what I expected. There were a great number of men who said very pretty things to me, and a Mr. Fotheringay is to take me driving tomorrow. But it was such a crush, and no cards or music or dancing or refreshments, only push and shove to get in and push and shove to get out. Why does one have to go to these affairs?”

  “To see and be seen,” said the earl. “And why is Mr. Fotheringay, he of the large nose and oily hair, favoured above all others?”

  “He was the first to ask me, don’t you see? So many invitations and compliments, I was quite bewildered.”

  “I am sure you will be engaged to be married before I,” he said easily.