Part VI. The Siege Of Britain
20
The Return Of The Portuguese Widow
The opera house was a blaze of lights, jewels, orders, satin gowns, dress uniforms… In the pit, the usual gaggle of eligibles, unacceptables, sheep, goats…
Greg Ashenden and Rollo Valentine, having been on the town forever, were more than capable of initiating Mr Harry Valentine. (Rollo’s cousin. One of those young fellows newly come down from Oxford who were not near so much up to snuff as they fancied themselves. Val Valentine had already had to speak seriously to him on the subject of that waistcoat.)
“That’s Jack B.’s Aunt Fanny,” said Mr Rollo airily.
Mr Harry goggled at the elegant older lady with the gold lorgnette. “Really? Thought your aunt was, uh, the black bombazine sort, Greg, old man?”
“No, no, dear boy,” said Mr Rollo kindly. “You are thinking of Greg’s Aunt Beresford—his cousin Jack’s ma. This one’s Jack’s Aunt Fanny. The Fürstin von Maltzahn-Dressen.”
Mr Harry choked. “She ain't!”
“I do not know whether you mean,” said Mr Rollo languidly—he had, in especial being a younger brother, had more than his share, in his time—“that she be not the Fürstin, or not Beresford’s aunt, but I can assure you that she is both.”
Since Harry seemed about to explode, Greg at this point put in kindly: “My Aunt Beresford—Ma’s sister, y’know—married her brother.”
“Ye-es… I see. But ain’t she the one— Um, never mind,” he said hurriedly.
Greg and Rollo looked with interest at the bright red ears and Greg allowed: “Very like. Whatever it was you heard, dear old lad—very like, yes.”
Mr Harry was seen to swallow. His companions made silent vows to get the story out of him before the night was through—though at the same time acknowledging that it was ten—nay, fifty—to one that they had heard it before.
“See? There’s my Aunt B., in the box with the tall fellow, reddish hair, and the pretty little thing in the yaller,” explained Greg,
“I would not say his hair was red, Greg,” objected Mr Rollo.
“Never mind!” he said impatiently. “Look, there: see?” he said, grasping Mr Harry’s arm. “The said tall fellow, in conjunction with me Cousin May in the yaller, naturally, represents Aunt B.’s triumph. As I am very sure your mamma has already told you.”
“N— Y— Um, oh, y’mean that’s Keywes?” he said groggily.
Greg and Rollo exchanged glances, and sighed heavily. Though allowing: “That's it, old man.”
“Stale news,” replied Mr Harry smartly.
The sophisticated pair were very nearly at a standstill, but Mr Greg made a swift enough recover and responded smoothly: “Only to those very newly come upon the town, I think.”
“Seems like yesterday to some,” agreed Rollo, faint but manfully pursuing.
“Exact. Who else don’t y’know?” he said unkindly.
“Everybody!” explained Rollo unkindly. “There’s Lady Rock., see? Now, that is red hair.”
“Glorious, though,” said Greg on a wistful note.
“Oh, absolutely, dear old boy. Not freckled, y’know,” he said to his cousin.
“Y—um—which?” groped Harry.
Rolling his eyes, Mr Rollo pointed out the Marquis of Rockingham’s box, complete with his Lordship, her La’ship, aforesaid, and those would be the Hammond emeralds, old man, no doubt of it, with her La’ship’s brother, Mr Luís Ainsley—fancied himself a Pink of the Ton—
“Weston,” interrupted Greg.
“Exact. Though old Green will do you something that will suggest you have shoulders, dear fellow,” he said kindly. “Where was I?” He peered at Lord Rockingham’s box again. “Oh, yes: the tall dark fellow and the little fair lady are Sir Arthur and Lady Jerningham: they’re connexions.”
Mysteriously, Greg Ashenden went into a spluttering fit.
“Eh? Oh!” said Rollo, also going into a spluttering fit.
Mr Harry looked at them resentfully.
“Of each other, y’see, as well as of Rockingham!” said Greg unsteadily, blowing his nose. “You are not half an ass, Rollo.”
“Pooh, any fellow might have said it. Anyroad, they are,” he said to his cousin.
“Um, yes. Um, they are both connexions of Lord Rock.’s, on the same side: I see.”
“Yes, only one don’t say Lord Rock., dear old boy. Not the done thing. Hey, Greg?”
“No, quite.”
“You just said it!” protested Harry.
They looked at him kindly and let the silence lengthen.
“You did!”
“No, dear old fellow,” said Rollo on a weary note. “What we probably said—either or both of us, I grant you—was ‘Lady Rock.’”
“Or ‘little Lady Rock.’, more than like,” agreed Greg.
“Aye, that’s it. Perfectly acceptable. But don’t say it of him, dear boy. Not the done thing.”
Harry eyed them suspiciously but they appeared sincere. “Oh. Um, isn’t he a lot older than her?” he ventured.
This seemed to strike the right note, for they brightened immensely and told him a lot of gossip, which even Harry Valentine was able to recognise as undoubtedly fifth-hand at the best, about the Rockinghams. Proceeding thence to chapter and verse on the Arthur Jerninghams: apparently of almost equal interest to themselves, though Harry could not see why. Um, perhaps just because it was gossip? He waited but they did not say who the pretty girl with the brown curls was, at all! So eventually he broke down and asked.
“Eh?” said Greg, apparently genuinely blank.
“Who?” said Rollo, apparently genuinely puzzled.
“In the Marquis’s box. You said who everyone else was, but you left her out.”
They peered. “Oh!” they said.
“Little Lady J.’s sister,” explained Greg kindly.
“Been out for a couple of years,” explained Rollo.
Even in the Harry Valentines of the world, the mating instinct, when roused, will prove an emboldening factor. “Can you introduce me?” he asked, blushing.
“Er—yes,” said Rollo, his jaw dropping. “S’pose we could.”
“To the little Dewesbury— Um, certainly. Very decent little gal,” croaked Greg.
“Now?”
They gulped.
“N— Well, thing is, Rockingham’s box,” croaked Rollo.
“Quite. Look, thing is, if she was only with the Arthur Jerninghams… No, um, well, she’ll be bound to be at Mrs G.-G.’s party tomorrow evening, old boy,” produced Greg feebly.
“Good. You can introduce me then, then,” he said firmly.
Feebly the boon companions nodded.
After that, it was scarcely a surprise when he evinced almost no interest in the fact that that was Stamforth’s box, and that was her. “Used to be the P.W.,” produced Rollo weakly.
No reaction.
“You saw Arthur Jerningham earlier. Well, he used to— Forget it,” he muttered.
“Q.-V.’s just hauled his keel into her box,” offered Greg feebly.
Rollo merely sighed.
“No, you’re right: forget it. It’s about to start, anyway. -Kindly do not attempt conversation in the middle of La Divinissima’s big aria,” he warned Mr Harry.
“Quite a musical fellow, Greg,” explained Mr Rollo kindly to the dropped jaw.
“Oh. I see,” he said humbly.
“Ssh!” they hissed.
Mr Harry subsided.
In the first interval they took him on the strut but after a while the repeated cranings of the neck penetrated, and they had to explain, kindly but clearly, that he would not see any young ladies—and them were not ladies—wandering about the opera house. And he could wait until Mrs G.-G.’s, party, tomorrow.
“Oh. Um, isn’t that the lady we saw in the box, earlier, though?” he ventured confusedly.
“No! Um, yes,” said Greg feebly. “What I mean is— Oh, God,” he said to his friend. “He’s yours, not mine: you explain.”
Manfully Mr Rollo began: “She is a lady, out of course. No-one would not claim otherwise. Only, thing is, that’s the P.W. Dare say she has asked old Q.-V. to take her for a little stroll. No harm in that, y’see.”
“But you said—”
“Given her position!” he said loudly, the sweat breaking out upon his high ivory brow.
“Oh.” Mr Harry looked doubtfully after Lady Stamforth and Captain Quarmby-Vine. “Ain’t the husband only a viscount, though?”
“It’s one of the oldest titles in Eng— Look, who in God’s name let him loose on the town?” said Greg loudly.
“Don’t be like that!” he cried.
Grimly Rollo approached his nose very close to his cousin’s snub one. “The Vanes,” he said clearly. “The—Vanes. Get it?”
“Yes! Drop it, Rollo!”
Mr Rollo shrugged, and stepped back. “You ain’t makin’ no effort to retain a thing one says to you, that is what it is. Told you about Stamforth only yesterday.”
“Well, I cannot remember all the names, there are hundreds of them; and it don't make sense when a fellow ain’t seen the faces!”
“We are showing you the faces,” drawled Greg. “See there? That’s Geddings!”
Mr Harry looked, but it was only a tallish fellow, admittedly in a wonderful coat, looking down his nose at a short fellow, as they both of them drank glasses of something.
“It could,” concluded Rollo sourly, “be Wellington in full dress uniform waving his sabre and the fellow would not notice nor care!”
“Aye. Fancy a glass of something?”
“I could that!”
The boon companions had resort to strong drink.
The second interval dawned to Harry’s saying that he thought he did not care for very loud singing, after all, but by this time neither of the friends was surprised. The only wonder was he had not said it in the middle of La Divinissima’s big aria. He thought the ballet was jolly, but then, that was not surprising, neither.
“I say! Who is that?” he then said admiringly, goggling at a box.
Neither of them so much as glanced up.
“By Jove!” he said.
Blinking, Mr Rollo roused himself sufficiently to raise the quizzing glass. “Aah!” he said. “Look, Greg; she is here, after all! Late.”
Greg looked round quickly. “Oh, by Jove! Now, that is something like!”
“Worth the waiting for, hey?” Mr Rollo peered. “Black lace over white satin, is it? Is that mourning, or not?”
“What? Yes! She may be flaunting it in front of all the damned cats, but she don’t want to put herself beyond the pale before she ain’t hardly started! No, well, I take your point, though, old man. Mourning, it is. Mournful, it ain’t. Luscious, is the only word, I think?”
“Luscious,” said Mr Rollo, rolling it round his tongue. “Aye, that’s it. Luscious. Now, where’s Shirley?”
Mysteriously, Greg Ashenden went into a spluttering fit. Immediately Rollo joined him.
“You fellows are doing it on purpose!” cried Mr Harry aggrievedly.
Greg mopped his streaming eyes. “No, no, old man.”
“No—’sure you,” said Harry’s cousin unsteadily. “Dear fellow, you certainly have taste, for that ripe little peach what you have spotted is Shirley Rowbotham’s latest inamorata, and,”—he paused impressively—“the new Portuguese Widow!”
Mr Harry’s jaw dropped. “Not really?” he gasped. “That’s really her?”
Very, very pleased at this reaction, they eyed him tolerantly. “Yes,” they said.
“Oh, I say! But Mamma and Aunt Laura said— But she’s only young!”
At around about this point that sophisticated pair of men-about-town, Mr Gregory Ashenden and Mr Roland Valentine, definitively gave up their efforts to initiate Mr Harry Valentine. Young? The fellow was a lost cause! Of course she was young, but that was not the point! At least, it was partly the point, of course, because old Baldaya had been old enough to be her great-grandfather. And there had been the scandal of the court case in Lisbon with the Baldaya family trying to grab every groat back off her after the old man popped off, and Henri-Louis de Bourbon dangling after her for years on end, not to say turning down the Princess Adélaïde in the Fürstin’s teeth, and Geddings reputed to have refused to marry on account of her taking old Baldaya, and Greg’s Cousin Jack Beresford retired to his estates in Cumberland, sulking, this two years past, with Aunt B. herself unable to get him up to town—
Young? That was all he could come up with, to describe the new Portuguese Widow, in person? Lord, what had the fellow come upon the town for?
Miss Bon-Dutton, sad to relate, had felt impelled to ask the very same question in regard to the Senhora Baldaya. What in God’s name was she here for? It was a bare six months since old Baldaya’s death back in November, and if, as Raffaella had already pointed out, black with some white touches could be said to satisfy the literal definition of mourning, an appearance at the opera, mid-Season, in a cloud of Chantilly surmounted by the blue-white blaze of her Paris diamonds, was calculated to set the tongues a-wagging.
Raffaella’s response to her cousin’s grim query was, of course, to open the big eyes very wide and protest: “But out of course, I am here precisely to set the tongues a-wagging, dearest Eudora!”
Eudora sighed.
“Why do you not give up the house in Adams Crescent, and come and stay with me, of course with dear Miss Hewitt, too, if you are so anxious about the proprieties?” she then said in a melting tone.
“Your letter claimed that Senhora de Figueiredo was a sufficient chaperone, I think,” replied Eudora at her grimmest.
“Literally, yes. Of course she has no control over me whatsoever, and in fact is grovellingly grateful, in the first instance to be given the chance to travel abroad, and in the second instance to get away from all her bullying relatives!” she said sunnily.
“I think I could have guessed that.” Eudora took a deep breath. “Raffaella, are you sure you can afford this damned house?” she asked baldly.
“Sicuro!” she said with a laugh. “It is not positively in Blefford Square, you know!”
“It is very near it, however. Give it up, and come and stay in Adams Crescent.”
“But no! A Portuguese Widow,” she said with relish, “must be very central, in order to make the required splash!”
“In this great matrimonial sea?” responded her cousin coldly.
Raffaella went into an agonised fit of the giggles, nodding madly and shaking her curls terrifically.
“Two Seasons back you urged me to point out to you that shaking your curls in that manner makes you look like Babs Arthur. And not like Lady Stamforth.”
“Oh, I do not think Lady Stamforth was mentioned at that time, was she?” she said on an ingenuous note.
“Raffaella, what are you up to?” demanded Miss Bon-Dutton heavily.
Raffaella looked at her with a little smile. “Dear Cousin, pray do not be cross. I have no particular purpose, except to rub the noses of all the London cats in the fact that I am now a wealthy widow, with a most respectable position in Portuguese Society. Should I wish to take it up, naturalmente.”
“If you flaunt yourself all over London in Chantilly lace and diamonds scarce six months after your husband’s death, Portuguese Society will, I fear, no longer have a place for you.”
At this Raffaella bent forward to touch her cousin’s hand gently. “Si, that is very probably true. But the thing is, I do not truly care. I love Portugal, but polite society is even stiffer there than it is here. I have promised myself that for a year or two I will cut a dash, and be the new P.W., and have all the silly fortune-hunters of England dangling after me. –To punish them for not doing so during my last unfortunate campaign, naturally,” she added calmly. “After that, I do not much care. Now that I have my darling Bella and more than sufficient to support the pair of us, I shall not bother looking for a title, any more. Well, did not we not once agree that I had seen what was on offer, within the shores of Britain? –What is it?” she cried in dismay, as Miss Bon-Dutton abruptly burst into tears. “What did I say? Dear Cousin Eudora, don’t! This is not like you!”
After the administering of some anxious pats on the back, and the application of Raffaella’s handkerchief in addition to her own, Miss Bon-Dutton was able to mop her eyes and say shakily: “I’m so sorry. What a fool.”
“Indeed!” agreed Raffaella with feeling. “To burst out a-bawling, now that I manifestly want for nothing—!”
“No. I mean, yes. Well, I think that is it,” said Eudora shakily. “You sounded— No, well, certainly your words sounded, if not your tone, quite resigned.” She blew her nose hard.
“Resigned to my fate?” said Raffaella, raising her eyebrows very high.
“Something like that. Giving up the hunt for a title. No, well, I suppose I mean, the hope of finding a decent fellow who would not give a fig about your background.”
“I do not think I was ever in the expectation of finding such an one, dearest Cousin,” said Raffaella very kindly indeed, “for I, you know, am not a hopeless Romantick like yourself.”
Eudora blinked. “I? I am no such thing!”
“Of course you are. –I shall ring for more tea, and as Aunt Eliza Figueiredo and I have brought our cook from Portugal, some of those little curly, fried-up sweet pastries which you and dear Sir Lionel Dewesbury so much like!”
“Thank you,” said Eudora limply. “Er—is she an aunt?”
“No, no: some sort of a cousin, I think, at several removes; and her name, as possibly you have guessed, is the Portuguese version of Elizabeth, which she revealed to me she has always loathed. So I told her all of the versions of that which are used in England, and she picked Eliza!” said Raffaella with her merry laugh.
“‘El-ai-iza’? Something like that? A feminine form of Elão?” returned Eudora.
Raffaella nodded, smiling, very glad to see her recovering her spirits. And added sunnily: “I have brought him, although he is not precisely a mourning colour.”
“You do not mean to ride?” she said in horror.
“No, no: not ride: sit on without falling off! Only in the most discreet manner imaginable, very early in the morning, deeply veiled.”
Eudora cleared her throat.
“That’s better!” said her incorrigible cousin encouragingly.
Alas, Miss Bon-Dutton at this gave in entirely, collapsing in laughter, and barely able to choke out: “Not too—deeply! Fall—off!”
As she was taking her leave Eudora again urged her to give up the fashionable house so near to Blefford Square, but was refused, kindly but firmly. Raffaella, it appeared, enjoyed running her own household. But would they not come to her? Not, of course, if it would only cause Eudora more worry. Eudora chewed her lip but eventually did decline the invitation. Though managing not to own in so many words that she would be in a continual state of anxiety if forced to witness Raffaella’s conquest of London from so close.
She was in no doubt that her cousin would spend far too much, but given the blaze of diamonds witnessed so recently amidst the Chantilly she did not truly imagine that she was living recklessly beyond her means. She herself, of course, would never have been so foolish as to fling away a considerable fortune on cocking a snook at London Society and its worthless fribbles—and, perhaps, disclaimers to the contrary, on making one last attempt to hook, if not a title, at least a gentleman of birth and means. So she took Raffaella’s gaiety very much at face-value, never thinking to compare it with the determined smiling cheer with which that indomitable young matron had once turned up at Sommerton Grange destitute.
In The Hon. Frederick Bon-Dutton’s opinion it was all “a ruse”, designed to recapture Geddings. Or at the worst case, Jack B. Supressing her private doubts upon the latter point, Eudora duly withered her cousin with a Look.
Young Lady Jerningham opined, with an anxious look, that it was possible that dear Raffaella had come to England in the hopes that Mr Beresford might have a change of heart. Manners prevented Miss Bon-Dutton’s withering her with a Look, but she did manage to reply very firmly that Raffaella was far too sensible to hope any such thing. Katie, alas, smiled bravely, but did not look convinced.
Babs Arthur, apparently come to call expressly to worm all they knew out of Miss Bon-Dutton and Miss Hewitt, was sure, with a cross pout, that the Senhora Baldaya saw herself as the new P.W.! She and all London: quite. Eudora did not bother even to react. Mrs Arthur was also sure that “no-one” would come to the Senhora’s planned salons. It was not absolutely clear, so pouting and involved was her discourse, if she believed this would be because Raffaella was still in mourning, or no. Miss Bon-Dutton and Miss Hewitt did not bother to try to ascertain her meaning, and even managed to work up a modicum of sympathy for one so thoroughly outclassed in the matters of jewels, furs, dress in general, and general éclat. And she departed in a cloud of attar of roses and pouts, with a final dark reference to the importance of Reputation to a woman in Society…
In Lady Ferdy Lacey’s opinion it was the jolliest thing that had happened in Society this many a long year, and she was so dying to see the Senhora B. at a grand Embassy reception! –Which embassy, not specified. Added to which, Baby Bella Baldaya was almost the exact right age for her, Gwennie’s, little Micky! What did they think? The two spinster ladies blinked, but agreed. And bit their tongues in an effort not to inquire whether Gwendolyn had brought little Micky up to town for the Season, or left him down in the pleasant country house near Dewesbury Manor in which she and Ferdy had now taken up residence. She departed with an airy reference to the effect of dark curls on Scotch titles. The two spinster ladies eyed each other wildly. Finally Miss Hewitt croaked: “Is Lord McDiarmid in town?” Eudora had no idea. In fact she was not absolutely sure that Lady Ferdy had meant— No, she must have. He was a near connexion of Lord Ferdy’s, and— No, well, who else was there…? It was not until the candles had been brought in, and Nettle had inquired politely if the ladies meant to change for dinner, that Eudora blinked, came to herself, and noted: “Miss Hewitt, the creature meant us to pass the rest of our afternoon in just such fruitless speculation! Let us not waste another instant of our time on it!” Smiling weakly, Miss Hewitt conceded that she had a point.
Eudora’s cousin, Eloise Stanhope, appeared completely bored by the whole thing, but Nessa Weaver-Grange was apparently almost as entertained as was Gwennie Lacey. And prophesied that ere the Season was out, Geddings would offer Raffaella a ring—now that she was so respectably established as the new P.W.! Mrs Weaver-Grange, as was usual when on foot or in her carriage, was accompanied by a couple of her little foxy, fluffy dogs. Or rather, as was usual on those occasions when she might reliably expect not to bump into Lady Stamforth with a stout pug or two on the leash. Eudora did know, unlike the rest of polite Society, that the P.W. had not adopted the pugs as a direct insult to Nessa; nevertheless she had to bite her tongue in order not to suggest that a pair of small dogs as walking companions might so much improve Raffaella’s effect as the new P.W. And was rewarded for this terrific restraint by Miss Hewitt’s saying grimly ere the sitting-room door had scarce closed upon the callers: “Italian greyhounds. I shall suggest it to Raffaella myself.”
Mr Charles Grey, apparently come to call expressly to worm all they knew out of Miss Bon-Dutton and Miss Hewitt, admitted with a charming smile that it was so delightful to see the Senhora Baldaya in London again, “all ready to cut a dash”. There was nothing in either his manner or his tone to which one could possibly object; nevertheless Eudora was not in the least astonished when, at the conclusion of the visit, Miss Hewitt noted savagely: “He is on course to become the greatest cat in London! And it is no wonder that Lady Letty Lacey did not take him, after all!”
Lady Lavinia Dewesbury, by contrast, had merely come to talk of her latest grandson. Well, of that and her hopes in that direction for Katie and Arthur. And, with a somewhat limp smile, to ask if Miss Bon-Dutton could possibly suggest what Lionel might mean when he went on about “those curly pastries what we had in Portugal,” because one would feel such a fool, asking the Senhora Baldaya for the receet in those terms! Eudora managed not to laugh, confessed she shared the soft impeachment, and explained that they must be the curly fried ones, smothered in clouds of soft sugar. And she could tell Lady Lavinia the English Portuguese name for them! Her ladyship departed smiling, with the English Portuguese name written down, and the promise that both Miss Bon-Dutton and Miss Hewitt would be present at her evening party this Thursday.
The two ladies duly concluded that they had seen the best and the worst of it. And when Captain Quarmby-Vine called, were quite at a loss on which side to class the visit. Finally Miss Hewitt said on a weak note: “I always thought him the best of them, my dear.”
“What, of Raffaella’s dim court?” said Eudora with a shrug. “Was there very much competition?”
“Er—no, my dear Miss Bon-Dutton; I meant of yours,” she said limply.
Eudora sighed. “He clearly came to call expressly to worm all we know of Raffaella’s situation and intentions out of us.”
“Ye-es… He was quite tactful,” she said on a dubious note. “It is rather sad.”
“True. It is also becoming ridiculous. And my opinion is still the same, that a man worthy of the name would not have followed her to Portugal.”
“If you would but make allowances, my dear! There was clearly a good deal of feeling on his part. A man may not always do precisely as he ought in such a situation; but then, was it so very bad of him?”
“Well, no. But that is rather Charles all over,” she said with twist of her lips. “Not so very bad.”
And that, of course, was Eudora all over. Miss Hewitt sighed, and did not say it.
The pretty house not so very far from Blefford Square was bursting at the seams with fribbles in town coats, fribbles in uniforms… Somebody was reading something at the front of the salon, to the accompaniment of shouts of male laughter… Eudora and Miss Hewitt crept in and sat down behind a sofa which supported a large naval form…
When at very long last it was all over and they had tottered into their carriage for the retreat to quiet Adams Crescent, Miss Hewitt managed to utter: “Who was that man reading the poetry?”
“I have no idea,” sighed Eudora.
“Er—was it Greek, my dear?”
“I have no idea,” sighed Eudora.
Abruptly Miss Hewitt collapsed in giggles of the most agonising sort. Eventually managing to gasp: “Admit it: it was a positive triumph! Admiral Dauntry was positively doating! And as for Lord Michael Fitz-Clancy! He is said to be the most absolute nabob, you know, and completely exclusive! And never amused by anything. Yet it was clear he was vastly entertained, and could not take his eyes off her!”
“I would have said he was amused, merely. And if you imagine for one instant that the Fitz-Clancy clan will encourage it, you are very out.”
“He is only a brother of the present earl,” she said on a dubious note.
“Quite. And they are relying on his nabob’s hoard to restore the family fortunes. Added to which, does Raffaella want to tie herself up to a man who is only too likely to dash off on another expedition to the East at a moment’s notice?”
Miss Hewitt’s return to this blighting speech was, on a longing note: “He is said to own pearls worth an emperor’s ransom. Only imagine wearing them!” So Eudora concluded she was pretty much a lost cause.
The following day dawning clear and cool, Miss Bon-Dutton, accepting its invitation, gladly escaped for a revivifying ride. The dew sparkled on the grass of the Park under the tranquil morning sky: she took a very deep breath of fresh, pure air, and urged her mount to a canter. This was more like it!
The relief was short-lived. At the far end of the next ride a broad-beamed yellow creature was espied, ambling along with all the speed and grace of, approximately, a coffin on legs, while next it on the one side might be glimpsed the glossy chestnut that was the hack currently in favour with Geddings, and next it on t’other the brute of a raw-boned roan favoured by Fitz-Clancy. And atop it, adorned by acres of floating black veils, flocks of drooping black plumes… Oh, God.
The Portuguese Embassy was holding a self-declared “informal little dance”. Grand ball: quite. The couples whirled in the figures. The Senhora Baldaya had already explained to her connexion, with great dignity, that naturalmente she would not be dancing. True, she was not dancing. What she was doing could, really, only be described as holding court. Seated in the middle of a sofa, with to her right, the doating Admiral Dauntry, and to her left the fawning Major Fellowes. And at her feet, or so near to that position as to make no difference, a crowd of younger admirers, chief amongst whom might be glimpsed, not in order of precedence, Lord McDiarmid, Lord Ludo Delahunty, Mr Shirley Rowbotham, and Henri-Louis de Bourbon. Yet again: quite.
After the supper—a ceremony over which Miss Bon-Dutton was forever to draw a veil—she was observed to take a turn about the room. But, alas, to Katie Jerningham’s twinkling enquiry if that were better, Miss Bon-Dutton could only reply dully: “No.” For the gentlemanly arm on which Raffaella was leaning in precisely the fashion favoured by Lady Stamforth, was—
“But that is Geddings!” gasped Lady Jerningham. “She must know that Senhora Carvalho dos Santos has been throwing that poor little daughter of hers at him this Season!”
Quite. Eudora sighed, and Katie immediately collapsed in giggles.
“I am surprised at you,” said Eudora dully.
“She is so perfect! She has not even glanced at Senhora Carvalho dos Santos! And that black lace gown is entrancing! Even more exquisite over the black satin than it was over the white!” she hissed.
Miss Bon-Dutton’s mouth twitched in a lacklustre way, but no sound was produced.
“And the black ostrich feather fan! It is glorious!”
That would not have been Miss Bon-Dutton’s word for it.
“With just those wisps of ostrich tips on the head: you must admit the whole thing is in the most exquisite taste!”
In spite of Lady Jerningham’s matronly status, Miss Bon-Dutton at this was driven to reply: “Nonsense, Katie! The whole thing is aimed to cock a snook at the Embassy and all its works, not to say to thrust under their noses the fact that the damned great diamond clip which is holding those wisps on the head, together with that great matching collar, cost old Baldaya a small fortune which his damned son has signally failed to wrest back off her.”
Lady Jerningham’s response, alas, was to collapse in giggles of the most agonising sort, gasping: “I—know! She is—wonder—ful!” So Eudora concluded she was a lost cause, too.
Mr Freddy Bon-Dutton looked airy. “She was at Lady Caro Kellaway’s card party t’other night, did y’know, Cous’?”
Eudora shut her eyes. “And?” she whispered.
“Oh, still her in blacks, y’know. Nothin’ to cavil at.”
“Was it the black lace, dear Mr Freddy?” asked Eudora’s lost cause of a companion eagerly.
“Oh, Lor’, no, Miss Hewitt! The little Senhora would not make the mistake of overdressin’ at a card party, y’know! Black gauze, merely, over silk. Little touch of white here and there: pearls in the ears, one little white rosebud at the bosom: exquisite.”
“I suppose it would be indelicate,” said Eudora with her eyes shut, “to inquire just how much of the said bosom was on display.”
“Oh, well—y’know. Nothing in it. All the ladies was similar.”
“Of course: it is the fashion!” said Miss Hewitt, not merely firmly, but with positive fervour. “And a little white rosebud, you say? Why, we were there when the posy was delivered!”
“Do—not,” said Eudora with her eyes shut.
“Oh, but we can tell dear Mr Freddy!”
“Don’t think y’need to. He was there, y’know,” said Mr Bon-Dutton cheerfully. “Said he was flattered to see her wearing his poor flower—words to that effect.’
Eudora opened her eyes abruptly. “What?”
“Oh, Lor’, yes! Drops in with Dauntry—well, don’t think Lady Caro was expecting them, from the look on her face, but no matter! Well, Dauntry was always one of York’s set, weren’t he? And old Baldaya was, too, more or less. So of course it’s pretty plain he’s dropped in on the little Senhora’s account: added to which he tells her loud as nothing that he’s heard she’ll be here tonight. Don’t stay long, out of course.”
“That’s a mercy.”
“Er—no, Cous’: meant Dauntry. Fitz-Clancy does stay on.”
“Naturally,” said Miss Hewitt smugly, as her erstwhile pupil gave a deep groan. “Is it not exciting? And was Lord Geddings there too, Mr Freddy?”
“Yes: was just going to tell you. Well, whole world knows he dropped Lady Caro—well, not to say dropped, never got that far, did it? Gave up the idea, let’s say, when he clapped eyes on the little Senhora, so he ain’t been seen at one of her parties for quite some time. But he was there, all right and tight. Came on with H.-L. from the opera.”
Miss Hewitt at this point was seen to swallow, her erstwhile pupil noted with bitter glee.
Mr Freddy continued happily with his story, unnoticing. It amounted to little more than that Raffaella had ended up playing écarté with Lord Michael Fitz-C. and Geddings together. The scene had been, according to him, “superb” and she had “played the both of them off against each other superbly. Like playin’ a trout. The most delicate thing what you ever saw.”
“One concludes,” said Miss Hewitt with a loud giggle when at long last he had taken himself off with the last of their fruit-cake inside him, “that dear Mr Freddy is a keen fisherman!”
“Miss Hewitt, I am surprised at you," said Eudora heavily.
“But it is so hilarious! She is having her revenge on them all!”
“She had never even met Fitz-Clancy before this year: he was in the Middle East when she was in London. And in fact,” added Eudora viciously, “when she was born!”
“Never mind! He is representative!” produced the broken reed with another loud giggle.
“What about H.-L.?” returned Eudora grimly.
“Poor young man,” she said with sigh.
“He will remain an object of pity, will he, if this unrelenting pursuit of Raffaella should succeed? It has, may I remind you, been going on for so long that he is well nigh the laughingstock of London.”
“I know: it is very sad. –No, well, of course it will not succeed, my dear: she has far too much common sense for that.”
Eudora cleared her throat. “He is a very attractive young man.”
“And she is a very sensible young woman,” she said firmly.
“I wish I could be as sanguine as you. Well, I will allow she has held out against him thus far.”
“Of course. And she cannot overtly discourage him: it would be too unkind, when she is encouraging all the others.”
Eudora blinked at her. “What?”
“Think about it, my dear!”
“Er… Possibly you are right.”
“Of course I am right. You must stop worrying about her: she is quite in control of it all, you know: in fact, the more I think about it, the more dear Mr Freddy’s simile seems to be to be entirely apt!’ she said with a laugh. “She is playing them all like trout!”
Eudora’s mouth twitched reluctantly. “Or like silly gudgeons?”
Miss Hewitt gave a shriek, and collapsed, nodding helplessly.
Eudora had to laugh. Though the uneasy thought did remain: could Raffaella really be as much in control as the little spinster assumed? Because after all, Geddings was known to have had strings of mistresses, all married women of position; and H.-L had already made one dishonourable proposal; and Raffaella was an unprotected widow…
Mrs Gratton-Gordon’s rout party. All the world was there and, as was not unusual with the G.-G. parties, the thing was fast degenerating into a romp. The unprotected widow was seen to smack Lord Ludo Delahunty’s wrist smartly with her fan. The young man retreated, grinning sheepishly.
“Do not say anything. I fully recognise that she could handle six of him with both hands tied behind her, and without so much as needing to glance in the direction of a fishing-rod,” said Eudora to her companion.
Miss Hewitt gave a smothered giggle. “Of course!”
The Park. A youthful vision in white muslin and black ribbons was seen to drift towards them, on the arm of a stout naval party. The two were seen to pause. The vision was seen apparently to admonish the stout naval party. The latter was seen to bow very, very deeply over the vision’s hand and retreat sadly. The vision drifted toward them, looking serene...
“You sent Admiral Dauntry to the rightabout?” croaked Eudora.
“Of course!” she said, opening the big eyes very wide. “He is only a man!”
“Added to which," explained Miss Hewitt primly, “his gallant naval history must surely indicate that he knows how to comport himself in defeat.”
Taken unawares, Eudora gave a yelp of unseemly laughter.
The vision, of course, merely dimpled and nodded the bonneted curls at them…
The French Embassy. Dinner. Eudora was there because it would not have done to refuse. Presumably Raffaella was there because H.-L. had requested the ambassador’s lady to invite her? True, she was not seated next him at dinner. She was next but two. The two being Eudora herself and Lord Keywes. This happy disposition of the personalities allowed Raffaella and his Lordship to exchange reminiscences of Rome… As there could be very little doubt that Mme l’Ambassadrice had arranged the thing with malice aforethought, Eudora could not but rejoice when Raffaella, a delicate vision in artfully draped black muslin which had come from the hand of the P.W.’s own modiste, or Eudora Bon-Dutton was a Hollander wearing clogs, captured both H.-L. and the Ambassador’s oldest son not two seconds after the gentlemen rejoined the ladies, forthwith adding to her bag one English general, one French general, one French comte—very young, and at the moment only an aide, but also very pretty—the now expected Shirley Rowbotham, his crony Mr Valentine, and, perhaps expected but nonetheless noteworthy, Lord McDiarmid. Some of these might have been considered negligible, true, had it not been for the fact that Mme l’Ambassadrice had three daughters of marriageable age, all of them present tonight…
The Park. The hour of the fashionable promenade…
“Oh, my God: she’s done it!” said Eudora aloud, pulling her pair to a savage halt.
“Miss!” adjured her faithful Lipton, very shocked. “Watch their mouths!”
“Yes. I’m sorry,” said Eudora disjointedly. “I shall. –No, but look, Lipton!”
The groom looked. “Mrs Baldaya,” he discerned pleasedly.
“Lipton,” said Eudora tensely, “the point is, she has two damned dogs with her!”
“Aye, Miss Hewitt said as how she mentioned to Mrs Baldaya as them little Italian dogs was pretty. Pretty sight, ain’t it, ma’am?”
Eudora sighed. It was that, all right. It was a cool day, and the vision was in walking dress comprising a gown striped in black and palest grey with a little tight black jacket, plus a magnificent set of silver fox draped negligently over the arms. The delicate Italian greyhounds were palest silvery grey. Their leads were also palest silvery grey…
“Any minute now,” she said Eudora, “Mrs Weaver-Grange will appear, I dare say from that walk over there, with two of her little foxy dogs. She unfailingly walks them in pairs. At which point it will immediately be apparent that Raffaella is offering her a challenge.”
“Is that so? That’ll be a lady what was catty to her, will it, ma’am?”
“They have all been catty to her, Lipton,” said Eudora with a sigh.
“That’ll serve ’er out good an’ proper, then, won’t it?” replied the groom comfortably, his eyes on the approaching vision. “Ah! Pretty as a picture!” he approved.
Quite. One might entitle it “Salt In The Wound”. Or “The Direct Insult”. Or “The Gauntlet Thrown”? No, well, just simply “Asking For It”, would do.
A stray curl drooped carelessly over the forehead. A tiny rosette of black ribbon peeped through the careless mass of the remaining curls. Tiny threads of jet beads dangled against the neck from the delicate ears. The bosom glimmered behind a delicate frill of black lace, semi-veiled and semi-revealed by the constant, soft movement of the feathery fronds of the black fan… Every so often the gurgling laugh could be heard.
Mr Freddy Bon-Dutton pointed out severely that his cousin was not paying attention to the game.
“No; I am paying attention to the fact that Raffaella is about to lose a fortune which she can ill spare to damned Geddings.”
The Hon. Frederick picked up a card and looked at it with interest. “Is she?” he said with meaning.
“Just don’t speak in riddles,” returned his cousin heavily.
“Thing is, Greg Ashenden was saying he took her on at piquet just for a laugh, when they went on that picknick to Richmond t’other day. She said she would not play for money, y’see, and so he was terribly understanding—ain’t as clever as what he thinks he is. And says they will play for acorns. Well, there was some,” he said as his cousin goggled at him. “Green. Blown off in the wind the night before, I’d say: remember that windy day?”
“Freddy!”
“Thing is, Eudora, you is incapable of appreciating a story. Ruins it, to have you interrupting all the time. Where was I? Oh, yes: he says they’ll play for acorns. Just as well: she takes him for a fortune in acorns.”
“Freddy, my deluded fellow, they all let her win.”
“No. Greg A. ain’t like that. He played to win, told me so. Took him for a bundle.”
“Er—she enjoys piquet,” admitted Eudora. “She always beats me, but then—”
“You can’t play,” agreed her relative, collecting up the cards. “Better make it spillikins.”
Resignedly Eudora played spillikins. They had not a very good view of Raffaella and Geddings, but she seemed to be laughing rather a lot. At long, long last she came across to them on his Lordship’s arm, smiling. “There you are!”
“We have been here for some time,” responded Eudora with dignity, aware that Geddings was eyeing their table.
Sure enough, his Lordship then said: “Spillikins?”
“Eudora can’t play piquet for nuts,” explained Freddy gracefully. “Rotten card player. Uncle Harold was the same. Mind you, he didn’t let it stop him.”
“Alas, like so many of us,” sighed his Lordship, taking the Senhora’s hand and bending to salute it with the utmost grace. “Remind me never to play piquet with you again,” he sighed.
“Pooh! We were quite evenly matched!” she replied with a laugh.
“You are too kind. –In actual fact;” he said to the cousins, “it was a bloody rout. Talking of which, I have another engagement. Do excuse me.”
“How much did you take him for, Senhora?” asked Mr Freddy eagerly ere his elegant back was halfway across the room.
Raffaella sat down at their table, giggling. “Five hundred guineas! He was so miffed! He is the sort that thinks a woman cannot possibly have a head for cards!”
“Told you,” said Mr Freddy smugly to his cousin. “Care to take us on at spillikins, Senhora?”
Sunnily she agreed.
Eudora sat back and let the two of them get on with it. Raffaella had taken Geddings—Geddings—for a cool five hundred?
It was the night of Nellie Dewesbury’s ball. Eudora had no idea what she was doing here, except that Lady Lavinia had issued an invitation, Katie Jerningham had called express to ensure she would be there, Raffaella had called express to promise to collect her for it— Oh, well. The ballroom looked pretty, and Nellie was looking her best. No-one had danced with her, Eudora, but then she had not expected them to. Well, Sir Lionel had offered, but she had kindly let him off. The assembled throng had been edified by the spectacle of H.-L., Fitz-Clancy, Charles Q.-V. and Shirley Rowbotham competing to persuade Raffaella to dance, but that was more or less expectable. Geddings had been there for a while but had apparently failed to persuade her to take a turn round the room on his arm, and had gone away again. So far—it was almost time for the supper—she had taken a turn with Charles and H.-L. together, two strings to her bow, with Fitz-Clancy singly, with Shirley Rowbotham and Greg Ashenden together, with— Well, their names were Legion. Put it like this. During every dance that was available to be danced, Raffaella had either taken a turn round the room in company or sat out in company. For herself, Eudora would vastly prefer to be at home with Miss Hewitt and Aunt Eliza Figueiredo, exchanging tatting patterns.
At this moment the middle-aged Major Fellowes and the unfledged Lieutenant Rupert Gratton-Gordon—in tandem—returned the Senhora to her relative’s side. “I should so love a glass of champagne,” she said on a wistful note. Immediately they were off, chasing the champagne glasses with flying feet, words to that effect…
“I know you are very bored, dear Cousin,” she then said kindly. “But cheer up: you are about to see me send H.-L. home to France.”
Eudora’s jaw sagged.
“Well, the end of the Season is in sight, and he has been so cheeky as to offer me an ultimatum,” she said, rolling the big eyes. “Consisting of, himself or not himself, you see? So I am about to tell him I much prefer the alternative!”
“I have to say, it is high time.”
“Poor boy,” she said in a melting tone, fluttering the lashes.
“Rubbish!”
Raffaella twinkled at her. “Well, I am not near so soft-hearted as Miss Hewitt, as you know! But I do feel a little sorry for him. He has been quite my most faithful swain after dearest Captain Q.-V. But then, there is the thought that he has the means to be so, no?” She raised the fan and directed a glance—but one fleeting glance—over it at H. L., and he was there in an instant. Poor boy, indeed.
They were seen to take a little turn around the room. Then they were seen to disappear into a little curtained alcove… After a little, Raffaella returned, looking airy. There was no time for a report: Charles Q.-V. hove into view and bore her off under full sail. But after a little Eudora noticed Henri-Louis bowing over their hostess’s hand and taking his departure.
… “You see?” concluded Miss Hewitt, as the Baldaya carriage returned the revellers at long, long last to quiet Adams Crescent, and the tatting patterns were eagerly laid aside in favour of the report.
“She knew I could do it!” agreed Raffaella, saluting her withered cheek.
“The proof of the pudding is in the eating,” noted Eudora grimly. “I beg your pardon, Senhora,” she added hastily to Aunt Eliza.
Sunnily Raffaella translated.
Nodding very hard, Senhora Figueiredo assured Miss Bon-Dutton: “Zhe Prince is go, now! Raffaella has telling him, and he go! You see!”
And so, indeed, it proved. Henri-Louis was seen no more within the shores of England’s green and pleasant land that year.
Lady Lavinia poured tea, her shrewd blue eyes twinkling just a little. “I really do not think,” she said, as Eudora sipped, and sighed, “that you need feel much concern over the thing, Miss Bon-Dutton.”
“Concern?” cried Gwennie Lacey vividly. “I should think not! The Season has been a positive triumph for Raffaella!”
“Well, quite,” responded Lady Lavinia drily. “Pass Miss Bon-Dutton the English Portuguese pastries, if you would, Gwennie, my dear. I think Cook has achieved something edible, even if Lionel declares they are not quite exact. What do you think, Miss Bon-Dutton?”
Obediently Eudora tried one. Sir Lionel’s opinion was correct: delicious, but not quite the same as the Portuguese receet.
“See?” said Miss Nellie ere she could swallow and utter a polite prevarication. “Cook has left something out!”
“You should know, since by your own report you did nothing else but eat all the time you were in Portugal,” retorted her sister swiftly.
Lady Lavinia flicked a mere glance at them, and the two subsided. And Eudora duly expressed her approval of the English Portuguese pastries. Silently wondering why, in particular, Lady Lavinia had requested her presence this afternoon.
Eventually, on Miss Nellie’s being permitted to accompany Gwennie home in her barouche, her Ladyship revealed, smiling, that they were quite pleased with the Valentine boy. And that Nellie seemed to like him.
Concluding that this must be the reason behind her Ladyship’s kind invitation, Eudora owned that her family knew Harry Valentine’s people quite well—etcetera. And duly prepared to take her leave.
“Don’t go just yet,” said Lady Lavinia with a little sigh. “I fear I have been beating about the bush, as Lionel would say. Er… Well, as you know, we all became very fond of little Senhora Baldaya during our trip to Portugal. Oh, it is nothing to do with this Season’s nonsense!” she said hurriedly. “As I mentioned, I am sure you need feel no concern over the thing. She did not commit the indiscretion of favouring any one admirer over another: if there have been excessive crowds of them, that is the silly fellows’ own fault.”
“She may not have favoured any of them, certainly, but has she not given very many of them far too much encouragement?”
“My dear, there is nothing in that!”
Thankfully Eudora concluded that if Lady Lavinia Dewesbury, née Hammond, had concluded that of Raffaella’s positively riotous Season, there could indeed be no cause for concern. “Then what is it, Lady Lavinia?”
Her Ladyship was seen to swallow. “Has Senhora Baldaya mentioned her plans for the summer to you?”
“Er—she said she would not go to Brighton,” returned Eudora cautiously, not revealing that the actual words had been: “Black and white is very smart, but then, any form of mourning must strike a sombre note which cannot but clash with the nautical silliness of Brighton. No, I think I shall not bother.”
“No,” agreed her Ladyship. “Katie mentioned that she had some scheme of going north.”
Young Lord McDiarmid was clearly very much épris, the more so since Raffaella persisted in teasing him unmercifully, comparing his youth to her own “advanced years”, and refusing to take him seriously: surely she could not be thinking of following him home to Scotland? She said cautiously: “Oh? She has not mentioned it to me.”
“No. Er, the plan seems to be,” said her Ladyship, very clearly taking the bull by the horns, “to head for Derbyshire and thence the Lake District.”
“The Lake— Cumberland?” said Eudora, going very white.
“Quite. She has not elaborated upon the plan to Katie. But I thought you had best know. If the Senhora’s social position must be seen to be much improved, yet the fundamental point at issue is, I think, unchanged.”
“Indeed. Thank you, Lady Lavinia. I shall make sure that she understands that.”
“I think it might be wise.” Lady Lavinia did not attempt to detain her guest further, but allowed her to shake hands firmly and hurry away. It would doubtless have surprised Miss Nellie to see her formidable mamma then move aimlessly over to the window, and, staring unseeingly out at the most respectable of London streets, utter the phrase: “Poor damned girl.”
Next chapter:
https://raffaella-aregencynovel.blogspot.com/2022/11/englands-green-and-pleasant-land.html
No comments:
Post a Comment