9
The Contessa And The Corinthian
In the privacy of her bedchamber the Contessa had wagered Giampaolo dalla Rovere that Mr Beresford would discover that a certain icy chill in the region of the toe or the ankle would prevent his taking her for the promised drive. Giampaolo dalla Rovere had merely flicked an ear at her and settled himself more comfortably against her flank. But Raffaella was proven wrong. Mr Beresford did not get cold feet.
In spite of her pessimistic prediction she was ready at an appropriate hour: fetchingly clad, for it was not a particularly warm day, in the deep yellow pelisse and straw bonnet with the grey and white striped ribbons that she sometimes wore to go driving with Eudora; and doing her best to appear, in front of the fluttered Miss Hewitt, as if drives with unexceptionably connected Corinthians were quite a normal part of her everyday routine. The which of course they were not. So far the only gentlemen who had driven the Contessa out were either young and silly—Captain Paxton, Mr Timothy Claveringham, and their ilk—or quite senior persons such as Captain Quarmby-Vine, R.N., and the fulsome Admiral Dauntry. The sole drive with the well-connected Major Vane-Hunter, who was certainly of a more suitable age, had resulted in Raffaella’s hurling her reticule across the salon on her return home. He had spent the drive sounding her out, in what he apparently fancied was a delicate fashion, as to the exact state of her fortune. Raffaella would not have been averse to driving out with the charming Mr Charlie Grey, but, though showing himself épris enough in company, he had not offered a tête-à-tête. Clearly too fly a bird to allow himself to fall into her net.
Miss Hewitt greeted the Corinthian figure in the many-caped driving coat with such evident pleasure that possibly the Contessa’s more temperate reception did not strike him: certainly he bowed her out to his curricle amiably enough.
It was a curricle and four: a team of glossy blacks were poled up, positively champing at their bits. So far, no gentleman had taken her out with a team, and most certainly not with anything half as noble-looking between the shafts as Miss Bon-Dutton’s matched bays. Mr Beresford, it was immediately apparent, was not one of those pathetic male persons—Major Vane-Hunter sprang to mind, yes—who merely aped the manner and dress of the Corinthians. The Contessa barely repressed a gulp. The creatures looked as if they would bolt given the slightest provocation. Or none, really.
Mr Beresford handed her up carefully, and himself sprang up—not nimbly, precisely: no, athletically, was probably the only word, reflected Raffaella numbly—and gathered up the reins, adjuring the little, wiry figure at the horses’ heads to “Let ’em go, Jenks!” As he let the horses go and ran to hop up behind before they could sweep away, she saw that he was quite an elderly person; wizened, indeed.
Mr Beresford did not, in fact, sweep away from the curb, but checked the road carefully before drawing out at a measured pace. Raffaella looked at the gloved hand holding the complex bunch of reins and could not help wondering if it was holding them in an iron grip. But somehow found her tongue unable to formulate a merry inquiry along those lines. Oh, dear! How horridly capable and—er—in charge he was. It was so… lowering! The more so as it must seem, nay must now be blindingly obvious, that she had not been able to resist a ride with a dashing Corinthian in his dashing curricle. The which was highly unfair, because of course she had not known that he really was!
After a noticeable interval of silence she eventually produced: “So, is Jenks your groom, then, Mr Beresford?”
Jack Beresford had been expecting something mocking or openly flirtatious. He blinked slightly as this inane and completely bland utterance passed the lovely but shocking Contessa dalla Rovere’s lips. “Er—yes, ma’am.”
“I meant,” said Raffaella feebly, “that he seems—um—not a young man. Well, I thought you might have a tiger,” she ended lamely.
Mr Beresford’s rather hard grey eyes at this began to twinkle. “Ah. Would you know a tiger if you saw one, Contessa?”
“No, of course I should not,” replied Raffaella hotly, very flushed, “and I may as well say right out that my mental picture is of a small figure in a striped waistcoat!”
“Aye, well, inasmuch as he usually accompanies me in my curricle, Jenks may be said to be my tiger,” replied Mr Beresford, straight-faced.
“Hah, hah,” she returned.
“No, true! He has been with the family for many years and was my father’s personal groom when I was a lad—is that not so, Jenks?” he added loudly over his shoulder.
Raffaella’s mouth opened slightly in stupefaction at the very proper Mr Beresford’s addressing his groom as if he were a person; and the wizened and wiry little Mr Jenks chirped: “That’s right, Guv’nor! Groom to the late Master, I was, ma’am, man and boy, and been wiv the fambly all me days, since I were a nipper!”
Raffaella twisted in her seat and smiled warmly at him. “Si, si: an old family servant! I understand; my family lives in Italy and very nearly all our servants have been with the family forever, and their parents and grandparents, too! And does your family live on Mr Beresford’s estates?”
“Bless yer, no, ma’am!” chirped the little man. “Lunnoner born an’ bred, I be!”
“His father was a groom in my father’s stables,” said Jack, his eyes on the road.
“We ’ad the town ’ouse, then, ma’am ,” explained Mr Jenks.
“That is correct. My mother sold it when my father died, and retired to Bath. She does not care very much for town life, and her own family comes from Bath. Shall we head for the Park, Contessa?”
Raffaella was conscious of a very unworthy wish to flaunt herself in the company of the Corinthian Mr Beresford in that most fashionable of venues. Oh—despicable! Well, at the least it might render such as Babs Arthur or Mrs Peter Ainsworth furiously jealous. “Please. If you would not be bored,” she said in a low voice.
“Of course not,” he said colourlessly, turning the nags’ heads for the Park.
“’Course, yer can’t spring ’em in the Park, ma’am!” contributed Mr Jenks unexpectedly.
Horrors! Who would wish to? “No,” she agreed feebly.
“Shut it, Jenks, you’ll shock the Contessa,” drawled his master.
At this point some lightly sophisticated remark, or at the least a lightly sophisticated laugh, was of course called for. Alas, the Contessa found she was producing merely a cross, not to say puerile: “Of course he will not!” Mr Beresford did not react and so, feeling somewhat desperate, she turned her head and smiled at the little man. And asked—not that she wished to know, of course: “When it is just you with Mr Beresford, does he spring them, Jenks?”
The little man’s face lit up. “Ah! Onct we gets em aht on the ’Eath or like that—” He broke off, coughing. “It wouldn’t do, for a lady.”
“No; and twisting in her seat like that will not do for a lady, either, I fear,” said Mr Beresford colourlessly.
Raffaella sat up very straight, her face very flushed. “But possibly I am not ladylike as all that, sir! Though of course I would not care to lower the tone of your unexceptionable vehicle!”
His lips twitched. “Contessa, I’m just about having a conniption every time you twist and turn like that, in case you topple out. Have you never driven in a curricle before?”
“N— Yes! I mean, not with a team, sir!” she gasped, very taken aback.
“What, not even on those much-lauded autumn evenings in Italy, when you might ride out, without being forced to bid your groom be sure your cloak is round his middle strapped about?” he drawled.
Raffaella’s jaw dropped.
“You must surely have done so; in order perhaps to admire ‘the vines (not nailed to walls) from tree to tree Festooned’?”
“‘In vineyards copied from the South of France’?’” replied Raffaella numbly.
“Sicuro,” agreed Mr Beresford tranquilly.
“Dio mio!” she cried, clapping a hand to her mouth and goggling at him over it. Mr Beresford glanced at her calmly but did not speak. “You—you are quite an educated and intelligent man!”
“Thank you, Contessa. I would not call myself that. I have a smattering, perhaps. Though possibly I should not have ventured the quote: my cousin’s amiable friend Mr Rollo Valentine assured us t’other day that our ears would not be sullied by any of that shocking fellow’s stuff at your salon.”
Raffaella smiled feebly. “I cannot imagine what gave him that notion.”
“His mother, we concluded.”
“Mm,” she agreed in a strangled tone.
Mr Beresford glanced down at her in some amusement. “You may laugh, signora: we frequently do.”
“Well, yes! I think you are probably all very hard on poor Mr Rollo!” declared Raffaella, beginning to recover her wits. “So, do you care for Lord Byron’s work, sir?”
“Not very much. Some of it is amusing and some of it is pretty—or Romantick, I suppose you ladies would say; but I feel that he does not combine the two tones successfully.”
“Oh, but he does it deliberately, for effect!” cried Raffaella. “The lines you quoted yourself must prove it: ‘And vines (not nailed to walls) from tree to tree Festooned’: the matter-of-fact note of the aside must surely be intended?”
“Oh, I agree: but it’s an effect which I don’t entirely admire.”
“Surely he is puncturing the—the pomposity of the moment? Why, your ‘Carpe diem’ at our salon did exactly the same thing: I should have thought you would greatly enjoy him, sir!”
“When he is successful, I do; yes. In fact, that poem is one where he largely succeeds, I think. I find his more serious vein tedious, I must admit. His Prometheus, for example, I find quite unreadable.”
“I thought it very grand. Though I suppose I did not truly care for it. Some of the short poems are very pretty.”
“Why, yes.” Mr Beresford glanced down at Raffaella, smiled a little, and murmured: “‘She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies’; yes, indeed.”
Clearly this remark called for a gracious laugh, or much fluttering of the eyelashes, or— But as he had not said it as if he truly admired her, but more as if he found her mildly amusing, somehow that sort of reply did not seem possible, and she found herself utterly inanely: “I very much admire The Eve of Waterloo, too.”
“It is greatly venerated, ma’am, if some of us do wish the victory weren’t owing to the Tories,” replied Mr Beresford smoothly.
Taken thoroughly unawares, the Contessa gulped, failed to control herself, and collapsed in puerile giggles. “I thought you were,” she admitted feebly.
“My family certainly was in the past. Oh, you are perhaps thinking of my brother-in-law, Lord Keywes? Well, yes: though he is a terribly decent fellow, Robert would scarcely have had his late appointments had he not been. It’s a great pity that my father could not have lived to see May safely married to him.”
“’Tis that, Guv’nor!” chirped Mr Jenks.
“Mm,” said Mr Beresford with a little smile. “But I’m a Whig, ma’am. My mother disapproves, though not going so far as to claim she likes the government.”
“No,” said Raffaella with a smile at this further echo of the poet. “And is Lord Keywes fixed back in England, now, sir?”
“Yes; he was offered a longer term in Rome, but the climate is a risky one, as you know, and although May was quite well while they were there, he has decided not to go out again. His son is growing up, too—George is his son by his first marriage, Contessa—and I think Robert would not wish to be out of England for his sake.”
“No, I see. How old is he, sir?”
Mr Beresford told her a little about Master George Jeffreys and from there diverged onto his Bath cousins and their household of ragamuffin sons of about the same age; and Raffaella began to perceive that under the Corinthian coats and the somewhat stiff manner the fashionable Mr Beresford was quite an ordinary man, if certainly an intelligent and well-read one: with an ordinary man’s interests, hopes and ambitions. Strangely enough, this did not discredit him in her eyes. Nor did she reflect at this moment that the Black Warrior would hardly have bothered to take an interest in the peccadilloes of a houseful of very ordinary children.
“Your cousins sound very like my own family when we were young!” she said gaily as they turned into one of the more fashionable drives of the Park. Laughing, she recounted how she and Sally had draped the trees in the orchard with sheets, scaring the household half out of their wits. Mr Beresford received this so amiably—and Mr Jenks with so much unaffected enjoyment, the which was not reproved by his Corinthian master—that Raffaella was emboldened to embark upon the tale of the ’Eadless ’Orseman of Linden Marsh, involving the application of whitewash to her Great-Uncle Ambrose’s horses by herself and her siblings.
Mr Beresford laughed very much. Though not going so far as to pull the team to a halt as he did it. He then remarked politely that he was glad to see that the Contessa was seeing something of the Dewesbury girls in town.
The Contessa was not altogether sure this remark was as harmless as it sounded, and eyed him sideways.
“Bobby Quarmby-Vine writes he may take a bolt to the metropolis,” he added mildly.
The Contessa jumped. Possibly he had meant nothing at all by it. “Oh?” she returned, somewhat lamely. “Susannah did not mention in her last letter that they intend it.”
“No, well, although she is keeping very well, she has decided she will not accompany him.”
Susannah was increasing: Raffaella nodded slowly. The baby was not due until November. And certainly Cousin Lilian had written about two weeks since to say they were so very pleased that Susannah continued so well, after a certain initial period of queasiness. After a moment she said: “Well, Mr Bobby is a lovely fellow, sicuro, and I am sure that if any young man may be trusted to toe the line while he is in town, it is he.”
“But you do not think that any young man may be?” he said lightly, his eyes on the horses’ heads.
Raffaella thought of the young Conte dalla Rovere, and repressed a wince. Gianni, though greatly, indeed ardently, admiring herself, had not been inspired by this sentiment to change the conduct in which he had always indulged in his bachelor days. And, far from placing her on a pedestal labelled “Domestic Virtue”, or some such, where a virtuous young wife should be placed, had tended more to treat her as if she was one of his cronies. Not minding his habits of speech any more than he minded his conduct. Certainly it had meant that Raffaella, from being an ignorant little Miss at home in her mamma’s house, had become a very knowledgeable young matron in a remarkably short space of time. But, blockhead, though he had been, it had not been entirely flattering to discover that Gianni’s affections were not hers alone. Nor that her attractions did not outweigh, of an evening, the call of the gambling tables. And certainly not flattering—indeed, lowering—to reflect that he was probably doing all those delicious things to which he had introduced her ignorant but willing self in their big marital bed, with other ladies. In fact, undoubtedly: he had had the sort of pretty looks that were, apparently, irresistible to a certain type of rather older married woman. The Contessa had endeavoured to convince herself that it was all to the good, for had Gianni not had so much experience he would probably not have made their conjugal life nearly so enjoyable. She had not been successful in this endeavour: at least, not on the emotional front. Though her reason had acknowledged the conclusion must be correct. And Sally’s report on becoming a married lady had most certainly confirmed as much: her Giacomo, a sober and earnest young man who adored her, and who had, besides, had sufficient sense of honour, not to say backbone, to stand up to his parents and refuse to break off the engagement when Sally’s sister’s escapade became known, was “clumsy, and sometimes rough.” Gianni had never been clumsy. And if he had sometimes been so over-eager as to be a little rough, Raffaella had not truly minded. And had reflected that the advice that Mamma had given her, to wit that one quickly became accustomed to it, was about the only useful advice she had ever had from that quarter.
“What is it?” said Mr Beresford mildly, as she seemed sunk in thought, and had not replied to his enquiry.
She jumped, and blushed. “I beg your pardon! Well, I suppose,” she said somewhat lamely, “that I have not a very high opinion of very young men, sir. And then,” she said, her brow wrinkling a little, “I suppose I do not think that marriage at that age is always well advised.”
“Bobby’s damned nearly my age,” said Jack Beresford calmly.
Raffaella gulped. She had not, truly, been thinking Bobby Quarmby-Vine at all: Gianni had only been twenty when they married. “Si. Though Susannah is very young… Oh, well, the thing is,” she said with a little toss of her head, “nothing in my experience has suggested to me that when the man is not very old, but is used to lead a very fashionable life, and the woman is an inexperienced little provincial mouse, he will see any reason to give up any of his pleasures. Especially if he comes up to town and she refuses to accompany him. Though possibly your experience may suggest otherwise?”
There was a little silence, during which the Contessa had plenty of time to reflect that he must feel she had deliberately insulted his friend. Well, too bad; Mr Bobby was her own relation, after all!
Then Mr Beresford said slowly: “It depends on the cases, I would say, Contessa. In this particular instance, I think you must know that I consider Bobby to be a very good fellow. I don’t disagree with your opinion of Susannah, but she certainly seems a perfectly pleasant girl, and he is genuinely fond of her. I think your conclusion may err rather on the pessimistic side.”
“I am glad you see it like that. Though some would claim,” said Raffaella, looking soulful, “that any perfectly pleasant girl from an ordinary family will not know how to go on, as the wife of the fashionable heir to a landed gentleman.”
They were approaching a barouche which contained a giggling young lady and two giggling young gentlemen in regimentals. Jack Beresford eyed it with disfavour. “I’m quite sure most of ’em will know better than that, at all events.”
Raffaella’s shoulders shook. The barouche belonged to Gwendolyn, Lady Ferdinand Lacey, and the two young gentlemen were Captain Paxton and Lieutenant Gratton-Gordon. “Oh, it is not that she don’t know, sir, more that she don’t practise it!” She waved gaily. “Shall we pull up?”
“As you wish.” They drew alongside and the two vehicles duly pulled up.
“Contessa! A team! How dashing!” cried Gwennie immediately. “And you are wearing your lovely driving-dress, too!”
“Buon giorno, Lady Ferdy, cara! It is entirely thrilling, and I wish I had known it would be a team, for I would have ordered a team driving-dress, express!” returned Raffaella brightly.
Promptly Gwennie collapsed in helpless giggles, barely emerging from them sufficiently to wave a hand at her companions and gasp: “Think—you know—!”
“We’ve met,” said Mr Beresford briefly as the two young military gentlemen smirked and bowed. Gwennie having eventually recovered from her giggles sufficiently to promise to attend the Contessa’s very next salon, the barouche went on its way, with a parting reminder to Raffaella that these London Corinthians did not appreciate whitewash.
“I have to admit she thought that you would not recognise that reference and that it would overset me,” admitted Raffaella to her silent companion.
“Mm.” After a moment he admitted: “I don’t know how Ferdy Lacey stands it. If she were my wife— Well, never mind.”
The Contessa looked sideways at the scowl, and, unconsciously licking her lips, ventured: “You would what?”
“Mm? Oh,” he drawled: “I can assure you I would not stand for it for an instant, Contessa.”
“No, well, perhaps you are made of sterner stuff!” said Raffaella, attempting to be bright and not quite succeeding.
“That would not be difficult,” replied Mr Beresford in a bored tone. He drove on, his face expressionless. “Look,” he said, just as Raffaella was deciding she must say something, however inane, to break the truly horrid silence, “if Bobby does come up to town, I shall have a word with him. I don’t seriously think he will misbehave, but I suppose the gilt may be wearing off the gingerbread, a little, for they have been married for over a year, now. And you are certainly right in that before his marriage —well, up until this year, really—he was used to lead a fairly typical sort of town life.” He shrugged a little. “Though I have to say there is probably little hope of his taking notice of me.”
Raffaella replied seriously: “The opinion of one of his contemporaries, who is very much a man of the world, must count for something. Well, if you feel you could, sir, I think all of Susannah’s friends must be grateful.”
“Ye-es…” said Mr Beresford in a vague voice. “May I ask you something, ma’am?”
Raffaella was immediately on her guard. Was it going to be something about her own married life, or about another aspect of her past, or a demand to know why on earth she was taking such an interest in Bobby Q.-V.’s marriage, or— “Of course, sir,” she said politely.
“Do you in fact like Susannah Q.-V.?” he said calmly.
Raffaella was very taken aback. He could scarcely be so naïve as to suppose that in the case she did not, she would admit to it! So why on earth was he asking? After a moment she said: “I do not think one could actually dislike her, sir. Of course I like her: she is entirely sweet-natured. And she has most certainly been very kind and generous to me.”
“Mm, well, I am glad to hear you say so,” he said without emphasis. “Now, let me ask you something else. If the rôles were, shall we say, reversed, and it was yourself, not I, who was a friend of Bobby’s, would you have urged him to tie himself up to a boring little girl from a country town?”
Raffaella cheeks flamed. “I did not say that!”
“No, I said it. And it is certainly my opinion of her, ma’am. Though, like yourself, I confess to being unable actually to dislike her. Would you?”
“I’m not sure,” said Raffaella honestly. “I have to say it, that I would have nothing against her, except the fear that she might not be able to hold his affections, or keep him from becoming bored in their life together.”
“Mm,” agreed Mr Beresford on an odd note. “Now, may I beg you to put yourself in his mother’s place and say to what you might urge him, then?”
“Assuming I was not Lilian Q.-V., née Bon-Dutton?” retorted Raffaella with spirit.
“Er—let us say, assuming you were in her place,” said Mr Beresford a trifle weakly.
She frowned. “I should hope I would not stand in the way of my son’s happiness, if he truly wished for the match…” She eyed him cautiously. Mr Beresford’s handsome face was unreadable. Well, bother the man, could he not at least give her a hint as to why he had asked? And, really, the whole conversation was entirely odd, and not what she had expected of a drive in the Park with a fashionable Corinthian, at all! Whether he was testing her as to her possession of all the truly womanly virtues, she knew not, but it had certainly began to feel like it! And the Contessa dalla Rovere was in no doubt that she would not measure up to any conventional vision of a virtuous young matron. Pedestal and all. She shrugged, and said with a light laugh: “No, well, I suppose in reality I should be like most mothers: horridly possessive of my son, and find no girl suitable for him! But that is not at all the case, here, you know: the whole county admires the way Cousin Lilian has positively taken her daughter-in-law under her wing.”
“Yes; Susannah is a lucky girl. But then, she has a conformable temperament,” he murmured.
Raffaella did not know quite what to make of this, on reflection, and so said nothing to it.
Mr Beresford drove on in silence, wondering whether she intended him to apply to himself that last reference to possessive mothers, and the earlier reference to landed gentlemen. Though of course, the cases were very different, for she was not— And in any case, he was not!
Raffaella was also silent. Bother, why had she said that about possessive mothers? Now he would think that she had meant to hint— And she had not, at all! And she had never met his mother, and, frankly, did not desire to. But… Well, since the topic had been raised, could the man not have given her a hint as to what his own mother’s feelings might be, if she were in Cousin Lilian’s shoes? Not that there was any similarity in the cases, at all. Added to which, Mr Beresford clearly disapproved of her, au fond, as much as his mother possibly could.
Eventually Mr Beresford made some light enquiry as to her plans for the rest of the Season; Raffaella responding equally lightly, the drive was finished in an exchange of polite nothings.
On its return to Adams Crescent the curricle was greeted by the spectacle of a slim young person in very yellow unmentionables and a startling waistcoat, about to ascend the steps of Number 12 with a huge bunch of flowers in his hand.
“Oops,” said Raffaella feebly.
Mr Beresford gave the caller a hard look. “Let us hope he has come to offer Miss Bon-Dutton his abject apologies.”
“Well, yes. Though personally I think it should be the uncle who should be offering the apologies; he at least is of an age to know when he is making a scene in a lady’s drawing-room. –Good morning, Mr Brantwell,” said Raffaella politely.
“Oh, I say! What a happy coincidence! ’Morning, Contessa! Er, ’morning, Beresford,” he added lamely, perceiving somewhat belatedly who Raffaella’s Corinthian companion was.
“‘Mr Beresford’ to you, you imbecilic little turd,” replied Mr Beresford grimly. “Get to their heads, Jenks,” he added briefly.
Mr Jenks scurried to obey and Mr Beresford got down, an awful scowl marring his regular features.
“Beg pardon. No offence intended,” muttered Mr Brantwell.
Ignoring this, Mr Beresford said coldly: “For whom, precisely, is this floral offering intended?”
“Eh? Fuh-for Signora dalla Rovere, of course! Look, I dare say you may be a Corinthian and all that, but it ain’t none of your business, and I’ve as much right— Ow!” he cried as Mr Beresford seized his ear between a very hard finger and thumb.
“At this juncture a fool would offer you the choice of a bout at Jackson’s,” noted Mr Beresford evilly. “But I ain’t a fool. Though I admit I was once as young as you, and almost as callow: the only reason I don’t drop you in your tracks immediate. You can have that, or get inside, give those flowers to Miss Bon-Dutton, apologise for ever darkening her door, let alone for that damned scene t’other day, and take yourself off never to return. Get it?”
“OW!” gasped Mr Brantwell as his persecutor tortured the ear. “Leggo! And I ain't afraid of a bout!”
“Let me make myself perfectly clear, Brantwell. I am not doing you the honour of offering you one. Understood?”
“Yes,” he said sulkily.
Mr Beresford gave the ear a parting shake, and released him. “Get in there and make your apologies.”
“Oh, very well,” he said sulkily. “But the flowers—”
“DO IT!” shouted Mr Beresford.
“Yes, do it, Mr Jerry, caro!” squeaked Raffaella, suddenly going into a gale of giggles. “Oh, dear! You are very naughty, and entirely silly, and please do not dare to duh-darken our door again!”
“There, see: she thinks it’s a joke,” said Mr Brantwell sulkily to Mr Beresford.
“By God, you do want to be knocked flat to the pavement!” he discovered.
Glaring, Mr Brantwell rushed up to the front door and beat a rat-tat upon the knocker. The door opened immediately: quite possibly Eudora’s footman had been glued to the hall window.
Mr Beresford returned to the curricle, and looked up at Raffaella with a grin. “We’ll wait until he has done it, shall we?”
Shaking, Raffaella nodded helplessly.
“Er, hope I said nothing to offend,” he added on an uneasy note.
“No, no! You were perfectly lovely!” she gasped.
“Oh,” said Jack Beresford, his mouth twitching. “Lovely, was I?”
“Yes. And thank you so much! For Cousin Eudora has asked me to be cool to him and I have promised absolutely, but the thing is, he is not very good at taking hints!”
“No: at that age, it takes brutality to shake ’em off, I fear.”
“Yes. And then they look at one soulfully, poor lambs; and what with the way the ears stick out and the unfledged look, it is very difficult to be cruel—especially when they have done their hair so elaborately and are wearing their very best waistcoat!” admitted Raffaella with a twinkle.
“And their yallerest pantaloons; aye,” he said drily.
Raffaella collapsed in giggles, nodding hard. Adding, when she was somewhat over them: “If he were three or four years older it would be quite easy to send him to the rightabout.”
“I see,” said Jack with a smile, leaning on the curricle.
“Would you really have knocked him flat?”
“Er—well, I was very tempted, Contessa!” he said with a laugh. “But no: not a silly lad of his age; not to the pavement. I might have relented as to that bout at Jackson’s, however,” he added drily.
Raffaella nodded hard. “I shall write to my brother,” she said determinedly.
“Of what, signora?”
Raffaella had gone rather red, for she had expressed a thought aloud and had not in the least meant to admit to any such naïve impulse in front of Mr Beresford. “Well, just that I have met a Corinthian gentleman who drives a team and boxes at the famous Jackson’s. My brother Bobby is only about the age of that silly object in there making its apologies as we speak,” she ended lamely.
“I’m flattered,” he murmured.
“He made me promise to, if I met one,” said Raffaella feebly.
At this Mr Beresford laughed a little, relaxed even more against his Corinthian vehicle and, leaning his chin on his hand, looked up and her and said: “Any details I can help you with, ma’am? The name of me bootmaker? The best time I have made with the team down to Brighton?”
“Do not be so silly!” reproved Raffaella severely.
Mr Beresford perceived that one at least of these shots had hit home. He laughed a little. “Which was it?”
“Well, I am sure I do not know why, for a boot is a boot, but he went on and on about—”
“Hoby. And a boot is most certainly not a boot. Though you would have to ask my valet for the receet for the blacking required to get it to the glassy sheen that he deems necessary. Would it disappoint your brother dreadfully if I confess that my man takes a far keener interest in the state of my boots than I do myself?”
She eyed him shrewdly. “I can believe he takes a greater pride in them, but I find it very hard to believe that you would not instantly reprove him were the boots not up to his usual standard.”
“How well you have seized the essence of us men-about-town, Contessa!” acknowledged Jack in tones of horror.
“Silly one,” replied Raffaella unconvincingly.
He laughed, but said only, as Mr Brantwell emerged onto the step, pouting: “Write your brother: Hoby. –Well, Brantwell?”
Glaring horribly, Mr Jerry replied in horridly dignified tones: “Naturally I did your bidding, sir. Pray excuse me. –Contessa, your eternally devoted servant!” Bowing very low, he took himself off, emanating wounded dignity from every pore.
Raffaella clapped a hand to her mouth. Agonised squeaks escaped from behind the hand.
“Well,” said Jack, grinning broadly, “give him another five or six years and he may yet turn into a very tolerable sort of fellow.”
“Yes!” she squeaked, .giving way completely.
Considerately he waited until she was recovered before handing her down from the curricle. “I do not think he will, in fact, dare to darken your door again. But I am at your service if he should.”
“Thank you so much! But I am sure he will not. The only thing is,” she said with a frown, “his awful uncle will now be convinced that his proscriptions have been obeyed!”
“Er—yes. That cannot be helped, I fear. Stevens,” said Jack with a wary look, “is an entirely admirable fellow, you know.”
“I would have agreed with that, sir, before I met him!” replied Raffaella with great feeling. “Every word of his speeches in the House shows him to be a most right-thinking man, and to resign his Cabinet post as he did confirms that he is a person of utter probity!”
“Indeed.”
“But ever since we met him, he has been so horrid to poor Miss Bon-Dutton, whose only known crime is to house the undesirable Me,” said Raffaella, very cross and flushed, “that I have had to revise my opinion of him almost entirely! And have come to the conclusion that he is what dear Miss Hewitt refers to as ‘Street angel, house devil!’” She nodded militantly.
“Er—yes. Lord, I thought the expression was confined to my relatives. Er, well, I see what you mean: in his private life he does not display that charity or largeness of mind which characterise his public utterances, eh?” He held out his arm to her: they went slowly up the steps, the Contessa leaning on Mr Beresford’s Corinthian arm, not appearing to be aware that she was doing so, and Mr Beresford not appearing to be aware that he was accompanying her inside. “May I enquire exactly how he has mistreated your cousin?”
“In addition to causing that scene at our salon? Well, very largely by—by a marked coldness in public that was as near as possible the cut direct whilst still not laying itself open to accusations of downright incivility!” Grimly Raffaella recounted, in minute detail, Sir John’s ignoring of Eudora at the opera.
“Mm,” said Jack, rubbing his chin. “And she noticed it, you say?”
“Of course! Well, what lady would not? But I should not care—well, I should, but not so much—had I not perceived that it greatly upset her, sir!”
“Er—ye-es… Forgive me, Contessa, but a pretty little girl like yourself would naturally feel such a thing very much. But Miss Bon-Dutton has been upon the town for some time, now, and—well, are you sure that you are not interpreting her emotions in the light of what your own would be, in her place?”
Given that the Contessa did not entirely wish to be regarded by the Corinthian Mr Beresford as “a pretty little girl”, she was momentarily unable to utter. Then she managed grimly: “Very sure.”
He grimaced. “Oh, Lor’. Er—well, he moves in Tory circles, y’know… No, well, I don't know that there is anything I can do, but… Well, you referred to yourself as undesirable; I think that indicates you are not unaware of the story that is all around town.” He took a deep breath, as she merely gave him an angry look out of those big dark eyes. “My brother-in-law, Keywes, has told me the truth of the matter: he had it before he left Rome from the Conte dell’Aversano himself, who was most anxious that Roman spite should not follow you to England. Robert knows Stevens quite well. If you wish, I shall ask him to ensure that Stevens knows the truth. I think that may ease the situation a trifle for your cousin.”
Raffaella was very shaken. “You are very kind,” she said unsteadily. “We should be most grateful.” She looked up at him, and held out her hand. “Thank you so much for driving me behind your team.”
Jack Beresford hesitated. Then he admitted: “I was not absolutely sure that you would look upon it as a treat. But when my little sister was first out, she regarded it as a tremendous thing, far superior to driving out behind a pair; so—!” He shrugged, smiling a little.
The Contessa looked at the Corinthian Mr Beresford with considerable liking. “I see! You are that sort of brother! Well, I do not positively withdraw certain remarks about coats by Mr Weston, but—but I do apologise for having taken you at face value, sir!”
Mr Beresford bowed very deeply over the little gloved hand. “Contessa, I deserved far worse. I behaved like a spoilt brat down in Derbyshire, and your reproofs were entirely salutary. I shall hope to see you again very soon.” And with that he was gone.
Raffaella tottered numbly into the salon. Eudora was reading, and Miss Hewitt was occupied with some sewing.
“My dear, was it pleasant?” asked Miss Hewitt kindly.
“Yes, very… He—um—he is quite ordinary, under those coats,” she said feebly.
The two older ladies exchanged glances.
“Um,” said Raffaella, clearing her throat, “I collect you have very lately received a floral tribute and an apology from a Mr J.B., Cousin?”
“Why, yes! A positively grovelling apology, indeed! It was very hard to keep a straight face, was it not, Miss Hewitt?”
“Si,” said Raffaella in a wavering voice, suddenly sitting down.
“My dear, what is it?” gasped Miss Hewitt. “Are you not well?”
“No, grazie, I am perfectly well… He made him,” said Raffaella, clearing her throat.
“He? You cannot mean, Mr Beresford?” said Eudora.
“Yes. I suppose, objectively, it was all very silly. But the naughty boy was getting very—very obstinate and contumacious, you see, and Mr Beresford, well, withered him, really, informing him he would not do him the honour of a bout at Jackson’s. And—and sort of… overcame him,” said Raffaella limply.
“By the sheer force of his personality, would this be?” asked Eudora, her shoulders quivering.
“Not entirely. He threatened to knock him flat upon the pavement, but I am not absolutely sure Mr Jerry believed that, only— Well, it was mainly the force of his personality, yes,” she said weakly as Eudora collapsed in laughter and Miss Hewitt, hastily whisking out a handkerchief, hid her face in it.
“And you are not positively in hysterics after it?” said Eudora feebly, after quite some time.
Raffaella smiled uncertainly. “No. Well, it was funny. Mr Jerry was of course ridiculous: very—very fluffy and yellow, like a scarce-hatched chick.”
Miss Hewitt at this gave a wail and had recourse to the handkerchief again.
“He—he has a lot of young cousins, quite a hurly-burly lot, of whom he is very fond,” said Raffaella feebly.
“Er—not Mr Jerry?” murmured Eudora.
“No. You—you were right, Cousin, about his having heard the truth of my Roman scandal from Lord Keywes.”
“Well, yes,” she murmured.
“He—he has offered,” said Raffaella, licking her lips uneasily, “to ask Lord Keywes to speak to Sir John Stevens.”
Eudora went very red. “Did you ask him?”
“No!” she cried indignantly. “Er, well, no, dear Cousin: I admit that had I thought it could do the least good, I would have, for your sake. But he offered quite out of the blue. So perhaps we shall see him relent towards you, if we encounter him again. It isn’t that I want silly little Mr Jerry!” she added hurriedly.
“No, of course not,” agreed Eudora limply.
Raffaella edged towards the door. “I must take my hat off… Um, had you heard that your nephew Bobby intends coming up to town?”
“No; did Mr Beresford say he might?”
“Mm.”
“Well, that will be delightful!” beamed Miss Hewitt.
“Mm,” agreed the Contessa on an uneasy note.
“What?” demanded Eudora grimly.
“Nothing! I assure you! Just that he has sort of indicated that he will keep an eye on him.”
The ladies looked at her blankly.
The Contessa cleared her throat. “In the case he shows any tendency towards kicking up his heels rather too much, with Susannah in the family way and off in Derbyshire.”
Eudora blinked. After a moment she managed: “My dear, I think he is truly devoted to her.”
“You do not know young men!” retorted the Contessa fiercely.
“Er, well, that is certainly true. I gather Mr Beresford does?”
“You may mock if you wish. But I thought it very well done of him! And he finds Susannah as much of a ninny as you or I could do, but nevertheless he will see that Bobby does not misbehave!” She opened the door. “It was a team. He said his little sister used to enjoy the treat. I wish he was my brother!” She went out on this defiant note, her chin in the air.
Miss Bon-Dutton and Miss Hewitt looked numbly at each other, their jaws sagging.
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