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

Lady Fortescue shook her head. “No, Mr. Davy, stage clothes will not fit the part. Sir Philip is very sharp, and there must be no smell of grease-paint about you. Miss Tonks, give this dish of tea to Mr. Davy. A cake, Mr. Davy? They are our chefs best. His choux pastry is a miracle. You seem a kind and amiable man, Mr. Davy. But have you got it in you to woo a gross and vulgar woman such as Mrs. Budge?”

  “If Mrs. Budge is as Colonel Sandhurst describes her,” said the actor, “then she is greedy and after money, so my charms will not be much needed.”

  Miss Tonks leaned forward, her eyes shining. “The theatre fascinates me. I would love one day to go backstage and to see how all the scenery works.”

  Mr. Davy smiled. “I could easily take you any time you want. I may be out of work, but I am still one of them and can come and go in the playhouse during rehearsals as I please. Perhaps tomorrow afternoon, if you are not otherwise engaged…?”

  “I would love to go as well,” said Arabella.

  “Wait a bit,” said the colonel, alarmed. “Mr. Davy is going to have to keep clear of this hotel until his clothes are ready and then he is going to have to pay attention to Mrs. Budge and to no one else.”

  “But we could meet him at the theatre,” begged Miss Tonks.

  “There is the matter of Miss Carruthers’s hair,” put in Lady Fortescue. “Monsieur André will be here tomorrow evening.”

  “That’s tomorrow afternoon then,” said Mr. Davy. “I will meet both of you at the stage door in the Haymarket at two o’clock.”

  Arabella’s face fell. “Mama does not rise until two. She does not go out on her calls until three at the earliest.”

  “Then we will make it three o’clock,” said Mr. Davy easily, and helped himself to another cake.

  “I know who you are,” shrieked Miss Tonks suddenly, making them all jump. “You were Rosencrantz when Kean was playing Hamlet; let me see, that would be in 1802. I was in the gallery, but I marked you particularly. Jason Davy. Yes, and you played Mirabell a year later, in The Way of the World.”

  Mr. Davy dusted icing sugar from his fingers and grinned. “My greatest moment.” He stood up and took up a position by the fireplace and declaimed, “Her follies are so natural, or so artful, that they become her; and those affectations which in another woman wou’d be odious, serve but to make her more agreeable. I’ll tell thee, Fainall, she once us’d me with that insolence, that in revenge I took her to pieces; sifted her, and separated her failings; I study’d ’em, and got ’em by rote. The catalogue was so large, that I was not without hopes, one day or other to hate her heartily. To which end I so us’d my self to think of ’em, that at length, contrary to my design and expectation, they gave me every hour less and less disturbance; ’till in a few days it became habitual to me, to remember ’em without being displeas’d. They are now grown as familiar to me as my own frailties; and in all probability in a little time longer I shall like ’em as well.”

  He finished and sat down to a spattering of applause. Lady Fortescue reflected that it was some time since she had seen Miss Tonks look so happy and animated. Her thin rouged lips curved in a sudden smile. “Well acted, Mr. Davy. Pray do have another cake.”

  ***

  While the late tea-party was taking place in the Poor Relation, the Earl of Denby was sitting in his club, talking to his friend, Mr. Peter Sinclair, who had just arrived in Town. “So how do you plan to amuse yourself?” asked Mr. Sinclair.

  The earl smiled lazily. “Oh, this and that. Nothing very strenuous. A few out-of-Season balls and parties, perhaps a visit to the playhouse.”

  “As to that,” said Mr. Sinclair, blushing slightly, “there is to be a performance of The Way of the World in the Haymarket. Very fine. Mrs. Tarry plays the part of Mrs. Millamant. Have you… have you seen Mrs. Tarry?”

  “No, I have been a country bumpkin for a number of years now.”

  “Ah, she is such a delicate creature. Such wit! Such charm! I go to rehearsals and sometimes she… she smiles on me. I am going tomorrow afternoon.” He fished in his pocket. “I bought her this,” he said, bringing out a flat red morocco case. “Tell me what you think.”

  The earl took it and flicked open the case. A thin string of sapphires set in gold sparkled up at him.

  “I am not surprised Mrs. Tarry smiles at you if you give her geegaws like this. Is there a Mr. Tarry, or is the “Mrs.” a courtesy title?”

  “Oh, some bad-tempered lout of an actor. I do not mark him.”

  “May I be vulgar enough to suggest that your wife, Joan, might be a trifle distressed were she to know of your infatuation?”

  “Pah, the country has made you old-fashioned and staid. Mrs. Sinclair has her friends and interests—”

  “Not to mention seven children,” murmured the earl, thinking, not for the first time, that somehow Peter Sinclair had never grown up. He still looked like an overgrown schoolboy with his unruly mop of black curls and ingenuous face.

  “If you had ever been in love,” began Mr. Sinclair hotly and then broke off, looking ashamed of himself. “Forgive me, I had forgotten the sad death of your wife.”

  The earl nodded, her face a well-bred blank. “Go on. Tell me how you met Mrs. Tarry.”

  “I saw her in Macbeth. Her performance as Lady Macbeth was better than that of Mrs. Siddons, I assure you. A friend took me backstage. We looked at each other. She said nothing but I felt, in that moment, our souls were joined.”

  Practised flirt, thought the earl cynically, and one used to getting jewels from naïve men like Peter. “Perhaps you would care to introduce me to this paragon?” he said.

  Mr. Sinclair brightened. “I will take you tomorrow to the rehearsal. You are a cold fish and you think yourself immune to the softer passions.”

  “Now did I ever say such a thing?” asked the earl, amused.

  “No, but I am a good judge of character. But mark my words. Love may be waiting for you in the theatre tomorrow!”

  ***

  Arabella went to bed that night but was unable to sleep. She thanked God for bringing her to this hotel which had changed her lonely life. She wondered what she would look like with her hair cropped. She got out of bed and lit a branch of candles with a taper and carried it over to the mirror at the toilet-table. She put down the candles and then sat down and twisted her hair on top of her head, turning this way and that. And would the earl notice her after Monsieur André had finished with her?

  She blew out the candles and sighed and returned to bed and began to make up a scenario where the earl would see her coming down the stairs with her new hair-style and he would clutch his heart and his eyes would shine. She fell asleep, and in her dream, the earl ruffled her hair and said, “Well, Arabella, and what do you think of your new papa?” And her mother said, “Congratulate us, my love, Denby and I were married by special licence this morning, and we have already picked out someone for you, Denby’s little brother.” They stood aside and revealed a low-browed, pocked-face man who leered at her and his hairy hands reached out for her.

  Arabella screamed and sat up in bed, her heart thumping. She must ask the hotel owners to find out whether the earl had a brother.

  Chapter Three

  Anger helps complexion,

  saves paint.

  —WILLIAM CONGREVE

  Sir Philip felt uneasy next day. Something was going on, something that excluded him. Miss Tonks had told him of the plan to crop Arabella’s hair and Lady Fortescue informed him that the Dessops had been about to leave without settling their bill but that Colonel Sandhurst had handled the matter beautifully.

  Although he had often complained in the past that he was the one who had to sort out all their problems, he had enjoyed the attention and now he felt old and useless. Also there was an atmosphere, an air of suppressed excitement. They were up to something, he thought, and that something did not include him.

  In order to try to win his way back into Lady Fortescue’s good graces, he returned to the flat next
door and roused his beloved and told her she was expected to help as chambermaid in the hotel.

  “But o’ course, sweetheart,” she said, shifting her bulk against the pillows. “But my back is somewhat sore. I’ve always had trouble with my back. Perhaps if you could get Despard to send over some of his jellied chicken, it would help me to recover.”

  For once Sir Philip showed no interest in her health. “I did bring you here, Mary,” he said, “on the understanding that you would be one of us and help to run the hotel.”

  “I know you did, light o’ my life. But what’s to do? They all hate me.” And she began to cry.

  Alarmed, he went to soothe her. He could not very well tell her that all loved her when he knew the dearest wish of the others was that she would leave. The others might see her as a gross and grasping woman, but to Sir Philip she was generosity and warmth itself. And so, while he dried her tears, he missed seeing Miss Tonks and Miss Carruthers leaving in a hired carriage to go to the theatre.

  Arabella was as excited as the child her mother fondly hoped she looked like. She did, however, wish she had a new gown, a new grown-up gown. Miss Tonks had found a very smart straw bonnet embellished with flowers which Mrs. Budley had left behind and had presented it to Arabella, and that was a comfort. Arabella had established that her mother would definitely be absent when Monsieur André called, and as her mother always took her maid and footman with her, Arabella was comfortably confident that there would be no one around to stop Monsieur André’s cutting her hair. She had not seen the earl, but she wanted him to see her next with her fashionable new crop. It was wonderful to dream, she thought cynically, because in dreams one could write the play and set the scene and make one’s heart’s desire say all the lovely things one wanted to hear him say.

  Not being accustomed to any friends at all, she was humbly grateful for Miss Tonks’ warmth and interest. Having led a loveless life herself, Miss Tonks was only too happy to become involved in Arabella’s hopes and dreams.

  Miss Tonks did experience a little pang of dread. This visit to the rehearsal meant so much to her that she feared that Mr. Davy might not be there. Besides, it had begun to rain, dreary English, soaking rain. The carriage slowed and jolted forward in fits and starts. It was amazing that on a dry, sunny day, carriages sped over the London streets like so many gilded dragonflies, but when it rained, everything ground to a surly halt and coachmen swore at each other, horses steamed and stamped, and the air was redolent of garbage and horse manure. But as they finally arrived at the theatre, it was to see Mr. Davy sheltering in the doorway and looking anxiously for them.

  “You are a trifle late,” he cried, “but no matter. What a smart bonnet, Miss Carruthers! Please follow me, ladies. We can watch a little of the rehearsal from the wings.

  How proud they were of this shabby actor who had the power to lead them into the enchanted world of backstage. How grandly did Mr. Davy nod to the surly doorkeeper as he led them in at the stage door. With what ease and familiarity did he conduct them through the labyrinthine passages towards where they could hear the sound of the actors’ voices. And then they were there, among the towering flats; and there, in front of the footlights, stood the actors.

  In the rehearsal, the character of Lady Wishfort was at her toilet, berating her maid, Peg. She was played by a Mrs. Leigh, Mr. Davy whispered to them. Mrs. Leigh’s voice reached them clearly.

  “‘I have no more patience—If I have not fretted myself ’till I am pale again, there’s no veracity in me. Fetch me the red—the red, do you hear, sweetheart? An errant ash colour, as I’m a person. Look you how this wench stirs! Why dost thou not fetch me a little red? Didst thou not hear me, mopus?’”

  The maid came into their line of vision, saying, “‘The red ratifia does your ladyship mean, or the cherry brandy?’”

  Lady Wishfort again. “‘Ratifia, fool? No fool. Not the ratifia, fool. Grant me patience! I mean the Spanish paper, idiot, complexion darling. Paint, paint, paint, dost thou understand that, changeling, dangling thy hands like bobbins before thee. Why dost not thou stir, puppet? Thou wooden thing upon wires.’”

  Arabella shifted uneasily. Lady Wishfort reminded her forcibly of her own mother preparing to go out for an evening and tormenting her maid.

  It was a very “warm” play, thought Miss Tonks, and perhaps not one that she should have taken Arabella to see. And yet it was so funny, and none of the characters came out with anything coarser than Sir Philip did when he was in a rage.

  The rehearsal was finally over. Mr. Davy led the way to the Green Room. Mrs. Tarry, the leading actress, took her place on a sofa in the centre of the room. Several very grand gentlemen were paying court to her. She was still in grease-paint and costume, a costume cut so low it exposed the tops of her nipples.

  Perhaps the finest thing about her were her eyes, which were very large and dark brown and which she used to great advantage. And then those eyes widened and filled with warmth. The actress held out a hand and cried, “My dear Mr. Sinclair.”

  Arabella caught hold of Miss Tonks’ hand and held it tight. For following this Mr. Sinclair into the pool of light around the sofa cast by a tall candelabrum strode the Earl of Denby, hat held in one hand. “Mrs. Tarry, allow me to present my good friend, the Earl of Denby, who expresses himself as smitten by your charms.”

  The earl raised Mrs. Tarry’s hand to his lips and Arabella felt all her dreams shatter. But the earl, having paid his respects, obviously felt he had done his part. He turned round and saw a slim girl with long hair down her back under a fetching straw bonnet standing beside a thin, spinsterish lady. He frowned a little and then his face cleared. The child from the hotel, looking vastly pretty in a grownup bonnet.

  Miss Tonks whispered to Mr. Davy, who was on the other side of her, “Is there any way you can engineer an introduction for Miss Carruthers to Lord Denby?”

  “Obliquely,” he said. “Come forward.”

  He led them into the circle of light and bowed low. Mrs. Tarry leaped to her feet with genuine enthusiasm. “Jason Davy,” she cried. “Where have you been?” Arabella reflected that despite his boast, Mr. Davy did not go backstage these days as much as he had led them to believe.

  “Oh, here and there, my heart,” said Mr. Davy. “May I present my two friends, who are vastly enamoured of your performance? Miss Tonks and Miss Carruthers.”

  Miss Tonks forgot she was there to further her friend’s marital ambitions. She looked at the actress with glowing eyes and said, “You are wonderful! Such grace, such elegance!”

  And Mrs. Tarry, who did not normally have much time for women, glowed before this praise and smiled at Miss Tonks and introduced the circle of men. The earl nodded to them and then said to Arabella, “You are staying at the same hotel as I, are you not?”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Arabella.

  “And are you enjoying the play, child? Does your mama know you are frequenting the Green Room of a theatre?”

  “I am nineteen years old, my lord, and no, my mama does not know I am here. But I am not in the way of having friends or of going anywhere, so I beg you will not tell her.”

  “That is hardly likely to happen as I do not have the pleasure of being acquainted with your mother.”

  “Oh, but you will,” said Arabella and bit her lip in confusion.

  “And why so confident, miss?”

  Arabella felt she had gone far enough. She could hardly say that as her mother was looking for a husband and because the earl was an eligible man, her mother would soon effect an introduction. Where were all the light and clever things she had rehearsed in her mind? She hung her head and blushed.

  Miss Tonks moved to the rescue. “I am a part-owner of the Poor Relation, my lord,” she said. “I trust you are comfortable.”

  “Extremely, ma’am.” He looked at Arabella. “And is Mrs. Carruthers one of the owners as well?”

  “Lady Carruthers is a guest.”

  The earl’s interest wa
s aroused. This pretty girl with her large eyes and long, long hair was Lady Carruthers’s daughter. Lady Carruthers could not know her ingénue was consorting with a shabby actor and a spinster who helped to run the hotel. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his friend, Mr. Sinclair, down on one knee, presenting that necklace to Mrs. Tarry. He said quickly, “Perhaps I could take you all for some ices or a dish of tea, Miss Tonks?”

  “Thank you,” said Miss Tonks, much gratified. “We should like that above all things.”

  “Do you have your carriage?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Then shall we meet in Berkeley Square at Gunter’s in, say, half an hour?”

  “Delighted,” said Miss Tonks. “Your lordship is too kind, so very kind.”

  The shrewd Mr. Davy saw the earl was already regretting his invitation and quickly drew Miss Tonks away. “Leave it be,” he muttered, “or he’ll change his mind.”

  He took Arabella and Miss Tonks on a brief tour of the backstage, showing them the scenery and the dressing-rooms, before hustling them out to the carriage.

  “I wish I had waited,” mourned Arabella as the carriage lurched forward in the rain. “How can I engage his interest when I look so unfashionable?”

  “You must seize the opportunity when it arises,” said Miss Tonks firmly. “Is that not so, Mr. Davy?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “What were these men doing in the Green Room?” asked Arabella.

  “Most of ’em were paying court on Mrs. Tarry,” said Mr. Davy. “And I think that Mr. Sinclair, the earl’s friend, hopes to make her his mistress. Just before we left, did you notice that necklace he gave her?”

  “And were they all looking for mistresses?” asked Arabella in a small voice.

  “No, they usually go to the opera for that,” remarked Mr. Davy, staring out at the rain. “The dancers at the opera are much in demand.”

  “Do you think Lord Denby has an opera dancer?”

  Mr. Davy sat up straight, alarmed. “Hey, it don’t do for any female to be talking about a man’s opera dancers, and don’t you forget it.”