The Salon

8

The Salon

    “Jack B.’ll be attending this salon with you, will he?” said the Honourable Charles Grey with a gleam in his eye.

    “Eh? No idea,” replied the innocent Rollo Valentine.

    “Shootin’ fish in a barrel, Charlie,” warned Greg Ashenden.

    “Aye!” he agreed with a laugh. “Very well, then, Rollo. Dare say I might see you there. Er, stay: was there not some mention of their having a day? Will today be quite convenient?”

    The innocent Mr Rollo broke into explanation. Meanly Mr Ashenden and Mr Grey let him tie his tongue in knots, revealing in the course of this exercise that he did not have a notion who or what Mr Coleridge was, that he did not have a notion who or what Herr von Beethoven was, that he combined an inflated idea of Henri-Louis de Bourbon’s consequence with the notion that he was a very good fellow in spite of being “quite musical and so forth”, that he apparently believed Mr Charles Grey to be an expert exponent on the mandolin, and that someone, possibly his mother, must have told him what a naughty fellow Lord Byron was, for the tongue-twisting certainly entailed the assurance that they would not hear nothing of that fellow’s there. Greg murmured something about ottava rima, and he immediately informed them that they had never heard anything so delightful as the Contessa singing in the Italian language, so possibly this last assurance was correct. Although the recognition of such did not prevent Mr Gregory from going into a choking paroxysm on the spot.

    Allowing that he would see them there, then, Mr Grey sauntered off.

    “Weston,” discerned the brilliant Rollo, glaring jealously at his elegant back.

    “Undoubtedly. Fancy Fioravanti’s? Turn with the foils?”

    “You could not land a hit on a barn door with a shovel, much less a foil.”

    “True,” agreed Greg, unabashed. “But if we go there under the pretence of gettin’ in some fencing, we may be afforded the delightful spectacle of Stamforth workin’ off being married to the P.W.”

    “Good, let’s,” he said simply, setting off eagerly.

    Shaking his head slightly, Greg wandered after him. True, shooting fish in a barrel was one of his, Greg Ashenden’s favourite pastimes; it gave one so much reward, for so little effort. But after a while, even for him, it did tend to pall…

    “Co-rin-thi-an!” gasped Greg, later that day, falling back in wonder at the sight of the whiplashes thrust through Mr Beresford’s buttonhole.

    “Drop it,” said his cousin briefly. “Where are you fellows off to?”

    “To Miss B.-D.’s salon: Charlie Grey was telling me Johnny Cantrell-Sprague has promised to drag Mr Coleridge along today. And Henri-Louis is rumoured to have promised a sonnet, though doubtless yer Honour knows more about that than us humble adjuncts to yer Honour’s train,” replied Greg cheerfully.

    “Personally I’m goin’ for the sight of a bevy of pretty girls,” admitted Rollo. “’T’ain’t only the little Contessa, y’know. And a fellow can always ignore the literary bits. Come with us, Jack?”

    “Or are you too elderly for such frivolities?” drawled Greg.

    Under his cousin’s sardonic eye Jack Beresford smiled sheepishly, and agreed he would like to come with them. Though withering Greg’s suggestion that he take them up in his curricle, even up behind would do, they only wished to bask in reflected glory.

    Adams Crescent was not far, and it was a lovely day for a walk, cool but fine, and so they set off on foot. To Mr Beresford’s relief, Greg took Rollo’s arm and the two friends strolled along together, gossiping happily, and Jack was spared any more of his young cousin’s teasing, for the nonce.

    Mr Beresford was not quite admitting to himself that he had fallen for the unsuitable little Contessa dalla Rovere; and in this reluctance to face his own feelings the knowledge that his mother would be most strongly opposed to any connection there most certainly played a part. Though he was not admitting that, either. At the moment, his principal feeling towards her—or at least the one which he told himself crossly he was feeling—was irritation with her total lack of anything approaching reserve, maidenly modesty, or a consciousness of her own position. He had not, of course, spoken to her since the occasion of his visit to Sommerton Grange last summer. And had she not come up to London would most certainly have made no further attempt to seek her out: he had, as certain of the Sommerton Grange household had guessed, come down with cold feet.

    He could not have explained to anyone’s satisfaction—and certainly not to his own—precisely why he had agreed to accompany his cousin and his inane friend to Adams Crescent today. He was conscious of a somewhat grudging feeling that she deserved a chance, for after all, her motives at that damned dance at Sommerton Grange last summer had not been entirely reprehensible. Though her manner had been almost entirely so. Mr Beresford scowled, and walked on rather faster.

    Mr Beresford, alas, was not accustomed to being teased, and so had reacted rather more strongly to Raffaella’s frontal assault than had perhaps been warranted. Being an only son with but one younger sister, he had never been exposed in his youth to the sort of teasing that the merry Andrews tribe had all indulged when Raffaella was growing up. Perhaps it was a pity that he had not seen more of his Ashenden cousins in his formative years, which had been largely spent on the family property in Cumberland. The charming Lady Stamforth, she who had been the Portuguese Widow, had been known to tease her admirers, true: but then, that lady, though not so very much older than Raffaella, had already been a matron with a family when Jack had first known her. Mr Beresford was not of course aware that Lady Stamforth had classed him, alongside her little son, as the sort of young man who required of a lady that she mop his chin for him; indeed, in the wake of her engagement to Stamforth and very, very kind and tactful dispatching of himself to his neglected ancestral acres, he had mentally placed her on a pedestal labelled “Gracious Womanhood.” Not having grasped that her Ladyship would have been the first to collapse in gales of giggles at the mere idea.

    As to Raffaella’s feelings towards Mr Beresford… Well, she had seen from the first that he very nearly approximated, as far as his darkly Byronic looks, his wide shoulders and long limbs went, to her Black Warrior. True, Mr Beresford’s short black curls were of the crisp rather than the soft variety and his face was not the heart-shaped one, rather wide across the cheek-bones, which the Black Warrior had been used to feature—but which of late months Raffaella had decided was too girlish and soft. There was nothing in the least girlish about Mr Beresford’s regular features. Though Raffaella at this point in time would have denied crossly that they approximated to anything Black Warrior-ish. And certainly he did not have the hero’s remarkable eyes. It was true that his were also grey, but there was no other point of similarity! Mr Beresford’s mouth was not that red, narrow one with the melancholic hint to its curves, either. It was not particularly red and if it was narrow, only a gaby would have called it melancholic. Boyishly sulky, was more like it. And the Black Warrior would not have been seen dead in a choking neckcloth and a coat from the hand of Mr Weston, in fact he would have scoffed at the mere idea of a man’s ordering his coat to be made moulded to his form.

    More than probably these shortcomings would not have counted for all that much, had Mr Beresford been possessed of even a baronetcy and had he, at that ill-fated Sommerton Grange party, noticed the Contessa sitting by the wall in her white gauze gown. Or, alas, had he proved to be something a lot less like a gaby, or at the least a lot less like a man of fashion with no interest in young women encountered at rural hops, when the intrepid Contessa had brought herself to his notice. Had the fictitious Raffaella done anything half so intrepid as accost an unknown at a dance and force him to rescue little Miss Mary Watkins from her situation as wallflower—or the epic equivalent, from a dragon or some such—the Black Warrior would of course immediately have offered her a position as his squire. Or, of late years, have swept her up onto his dashing black steed and carried her off to his highly Romantick castle.

    It would, then, have been fair to say that neither of these young persons was admitting that the young person of the opposite sex to whom they felt attracted could possibly be the one. For that real person bore almost no resemblance, save a passing surface one, to the imagined one. Those gracious, womanly attributes which the gentleman had always believed should be present in the lady who became the mistress of one’s house and the mother of one’s children were most distinctly lacking, while those attributes which were present were, on the whole, damned maddening. And the attributes which the lady had long since decided were mandatory in one’s beau ideal were wholly lacking; and so was the necessary title which the stubborn lady in question had determined must be present. Mr Beresford, in short, fell short. Not being entirely stupid or blind, Raffaella had a fair idea that that was precisely how he felt about her. The which did not incline her to soften her attitude towards that gentleman in the least.

    When the newcomers were shown into the salon of Number 12 Adams Crescent a man of undistinguished appearance in a brown coat of very undistinguished appearance was reading aloud: the Contessa looked round and frowned, and the young footman did not announce them, merely motioned them silently to seats. They duly crept along to them and sat down unobtrusively. Mr Greg, indeed, had “creeping” and “unobtrusive” writ all over him.

    There was applause as the reader finished and several gentleman immediately joined him, engaging him in spirited discussion; and Miss Bon-Dutton came politely to greet the new arrivals. Managing, she sincerely trusted, to hide her astonishment at the sight of Mr Beresford in their sitting-room.

    “How delightful to see you again,” she said with a forced smile. “You must come and say hullo to the Contessa; I am sure she will be glad to see you.”

    “Yes, of course she will, ma’am,” agreed Greg immediately. “Any impressionable young lady would be glad to see anything half so Corinthian in her drawing-room, beg pardon, salon. –Note the whiplashes,” he finished deeply.

    Trying not to choke, Eudora returned smoothly: “I would agree with you, Mr Gregory, were it not for the fact that my own driving dress features similar whiplashes.”

    Mr Ashenden gave a yelp of laughter, and Mr Beresford’s grim face relaxed somewhat.

    “Aye, so it do!” agreed Mr Rollo, grinning broadly. “Seen you drivin’ in the Park, ma’am: you do yourself credit, if you’ll forgive my sayin’ so. Old Percy Luton’s bays, aren’t they?”

    “Yes, quite,” said Eudora feebly, feeling she was about to lose her gravity. “Er, the Contessa is just over here, Mr Beresford,” she murmured, as Mr Shirley Rowbotham, grinning, wandered up remarking that Mr Greg and Mr Rollo had made it, after all.

    Greg frankly stared, as his cousin obediently moved off. “Well, he’s bowing over her hand,” he reported.

    “Is that good or bad, Greg?” demanded Rollo.

    “Not sure. Um, smiling and fluttering the lashes at him… Jack don’t look pleased, maybe she’s telling him how Co-rin-thi-an he looks.”

    Greg was not far wrong: Raffaella had greeted Mr Beresford, who had not, alas, managed to smile, with: “Mr Beresford! We are honoured indeed! And how dashing you look! I own, I am astonished that you find the time in between paying due attention to your dress and all those lovely Corinthian accoutrements, to indulge in literary pursuits. Oh, but perhaps you did not realise that that was Mr Coleridge! He is a poet, you know,” she explained kindly.

    “Yes, I do know. Met him at one of Mrs Cantrell-Sprague’s afternoons,” said Jack in an annoyed voice.

    “Real-ly? My goodness, you do move in exalted circles! But then, of course, with your impeccable connections, why not? We saw your aunt at the opera just a few days ago: from afar, you know. With her daughter. And… who was it? Oh, yes: Geddings.” She smiled artlessly.

    “No doubt. How are you enjoying London?” said Jack with a forced smile.

    “Oh, well, for one of my less than impeccable connections, I am managing to enjoy myself rather well, thank you!”

    Jack opened his mouth to say something inane about the opera, when he was forestalled by Henri-Louis’s coming up, slipping his arm in his and exclaiming: “Jack, mon cher! But have you abandoned poor Jackson for the salons of the more literary sort, then?” And by the Contessa’s collapsing in delighted giggles.

    “Oops,” concluded Greg, winking.

    “Le petit Monsieur,” discerned the brilliant Rollo. “See?”

    “Aye,” agreed Greg kindly. “Er, well, gives the afternoon a cachet, I suppose.”

    “Given that he grew up in Tunbridge Wells or some such, while we were getting his country back for him,” acknowledged Mr Shirley, considerately in a lowered voice.

    “Let’s hope he don’t give us the threatened ode, or whatever it were,” noted Greg.

    Mr Rollo coughed. “Um, think we is a bit late, actually.”

    That had dawned: Mr Ashenden looked thoughtfully at Mr Coleridge, now bowing over his hostess’s hand. “I will lay you a whole sixpence that that fellow has never been to sea in his life, much less been far enough out of sight of land to lay eyes upon a damned albatross.”

    Promptly Mr Shirley collapsed in a wheezing paroxysm of the most painful sort.

    “Eh?” said Mr Rollo in bewilderment.

    At this Greg joined Shirley in his paroxysm. Gasping: “He did warn us he came for the bevy of pretty girls!”

    If this were the purpose of the exercise, Mr Rollo was not destined to suffer a disappointment: for before very long at all Miss Bon-Dutton led Lady Letty Lacey and Lady Caro Kellaway over to Mr Greg and Mr Rollo. Who had refused Mr Shirley’s kind invitation to come on up to the front and sit with H.-L., since it was accompanied by the information that the Contessa was looking for fellows what could sing or play.

    “They were very lonely, were they?” asked Mr Greg soulfully of his hostess, introductions having been effected.

    Before Eudora could utter, Miss Nellie Dewesbury had popped up at her elbow. “Yes, for the Contessa has stolen all their beaux!” she said with a giggle. “We did warn you,” she added to Lady Letty.

    “Yes!” said that sophisticated young maiden with a strangled laugh and an anguished look at her sister.

    Poor Lady Caro was rather flushed: not only had Raffaella capably whisked away Mr Charlie Grey, whom the Lacey sisters, truth to tell, had been used to look upon rather as a faithful lapdog; she had also whisked Geddings out from under Lady Caro’s nose, just as that unfortunate young matron had been greeting him with astonished delight. In spite of Geddings’s professed dislike of crowds he had stayed the course and was, in fact, to be seen at this moment opening the harpsichord.

    Somewhat limply Miss Bon-Dutton introduced Miss Nellie to the young gentlemen. Restraining her mind with something of an effort from wondering in whose charge, precisely, her formidable mother believed her to be this afternoon.

    “Never mind, we can just be cosy and undistinguished in our obscure little corner,” said Nellie comfortably to the Lacey ladies.

    “Yes, do let’s!” replied Lady Caro with an uneasy tinkle of laughter.

    “I can manage that!’ agreed Greg cheerfully.

    “And not literary!” added Nellie, giggling.

    “I think I can almost promise you,” said Greg, looking soulful, “that we can manage that, too!”

    Eudora smiled limply, and escaped. Katie was sitting with Gwennie on a small sofa, with two hussars, neither of whom was Quentin Dewesbury, leaning on its back, and two gentlemen in the pantaloons and blue coats of town wear, neither of whom was Lord Ferdy Lacey, to the sides of it. All very much flushed and laughing. Exactly who was supposed to be in charge of whom? No, she would not contemplate it. At all.

    Eventually the Contessa, giggling, emerged from a gaggle of male backs clustered by the harpsichord to announce that Mr Charlie Grey had been prevailed upon to play his mandolin in a duet with Lord Geddings. And they must shush!

    Everybody obediently shushed.

    After about a minute of it, all round the room the more musical could be seen and heard giving way to shaking, spluttering, and actual giggling fits.

    “They’re racing each other!” choked Greg.

    Once this hint had been given, it was very apparent that they were. The piece was possibly Mozart, or so some were heard to claim. The race, which went on for quite some time, finished in a positive thunder of hooves—well, almost, given the instruments—the harpsichord galloping home quite a distinct second to the mandolin.

    There was much laughter and applause.

    “Musical fellow, Geddings, hey?” said Mr Rollo tolerantly.

    “Indeed! And I must say, I had no notion Charlie could play so well!” owned Letty.

    At this, mysteriously, Mr Gregory collapsed in another choking fit.

    “Go on, then; enlighten us,” said Nellie on a cross note.

    Somewhat limply Greg blew his nose. “Geddings was letting him set the pace. Could you not hear? Every time he speeded up, the harpsichord speeded up also, but still keeping its distance! It was terribly artful!”

    “But scarcely a race, in that case,” she said, pouting.

    “Crushed again!” he sighed.

    “Ssh; think they’re going to do another piece,” said Mr Rollo, sitting up expectantly.

    “Henri-Louis: we are honoured,” noted Greg, sotto voce.

    “It ain’t musical, don’t think,” said Mr Rollo, peering. “Ooh!” he gasped as the harpsichord produced an impressive introductory chord.

    Raffaella had been conferring with the small group of gentlemen at the front. She now held up her hand and cried: “Pray silence for son Altesse! Monsieur, our most grateful thanks, nay our humblest thanks, for the pleasure in store.”

    “We haven’t heard it yet,” noted Geddings sardonically from the instrument.

    “That is why I am thanking him in advance, grand imbécile,” she said coldly.

    Her audience, son Altesse not excluded, duly collapsed.

    “Well, go on,” said Raffaella cheerfully to the Prince as the noise died down.

    “Gracious lady, how can I refuse after that most flattering introduction? Messieurs dames, I should firstly offer my excuses for my poor little offering, originally composed in my native tongue; sadly, I did not manage to find any willing help with the translat—”

    “Sit down!” called a gentleman’s voice loudly from the audience at this point.

    “Order!” cried another gentleman’s voice.

    Several gentlemen were heard to snigger.

    “Parliamentary practice will absolutely not be observed, and I saw who that was!” cried Raffaella loudly. “Let him read it; if you all lose your bets it will serve you out!”

    “Order!” cried the same gentleman’s voice.

    ‘Ten guineas says he cannot get through it without breaking down!” cried another gentleman’s voice.

    “Another ten says there ain’t a true rhyme in it,” drawled yet another gentleman’s voice.

    Very flushed, possibly in part because this last voice had been Mr Beresford’s, Raffaella cried: “At least he has the courage to try! Allez, continuez, Monsieur, je vous prie!”

    “I could play my mandolin in the background to support you, sir,” offered Charlie Grey, suddenly popping up at Raffaella’s side.

    “Sit down!” shouted several gentleman.

    Greg Ashenden, to the horror of certain persons in his group, at this point began to clap very slowly and loudly. All round the room other gentlemen could be seen and heard joining in. Eventually Geddings had to play a resounding roll upon the instrument and, after a few admonitory remarks from Raffaella to the brighter sparks in the front rows, Henri-Louis was allowed to proceed.

    “It is called ‘Sonnet in the French Fashion.’ Sonnet à la—”

    “’Nuff! Sit down!” cried several voices. Several persons began to clap loudly.

    “This is becoming ridiculous!” said Nellie crossly. “Will we never hear it? Who are all those silly fellows at the front of the room?”

    Helpfully Mr Rollo Valentine explained: “Well, they is mostly friends of H.-L’s, y’see, Miss Nellie, and the thing is, they is not exactly literary fellows. What I mean is, that’s Shirley Rowbotham, in the brown coat: he was with us, earlier, don’t think you was introduced? Well, he would not know a sonnet if he fell over it. And that’s m’brother Val, next him, and I can tell you, he ain’t got a poetic bone in his body.”

    “I, you see, though extremely humble, nay mere, in myself, have got this frightfully well connected fellow what tells me how I should go on,” Greg added affably.

    “Ssh!” she hissed, giggling.

    “Do he actually intend to read the thing?” he wondered.

    “He must do, there is a bet on it,” said Letty seriously.

    Lady Letty was apparently correct, for at very long last the poet did read his opus. Very soulfully, and with much emphasis upon the metre and the rhymes.

     Sonnet in the French Fashion

I send to you this posy from my hand;

     —Mr Ashenden here was heard to gulp.

Thát I have strewn with well open’d blooms.

Were they not pluckèd this same afternoon,

Down to the ground would they all land.

    Let this as precept come to hand,

    —“Boo!” shouted a voice from the middle of the room.

That your beauties, gaily though they flourish,

In short, brief time must surely vanish,

And perish all, as does this flow’ry band.

    —“Boo!” shouted the same voice.

    Time ticks away, time ticks away, my lady:

Alas! Not time, but we must hasten off

And soon will lie beneath the sod so shady.

And of the loves of which we chat so oft,

    —“What?” croaked Greg in spite of himself.

When we are dead there will be news no longer.

For this, love me true, while still your bloom doth linger.

    The poet bowed deeply, with a flourish of his manuscript, and the more literate of his audience collapsed with yelps of laughter. There was much shouting and booing, cries of “Linger-longer?” and “Hasten off, so oft?” and, from one wit: “Hasten off, wot?”

    After a considerable period of this sort of thing, several persons took their leave and the Contessa, clapping her hands for attention, announced that there would be tea for the thirsty. Most of ’em, as Mr Gregory did not fail to note, must have been thirsty, for they stayed for it: about fifteen souls, in all.

    Over the teacups several gentlemen misguidedly tried to cap Henri-Louis’s poetic effort, so Raffaella, having first informed Mr Shirley Rowbotham, he of the brown coat and ignorance of the sonnet, that it had been meant to be as literal as was possible within the constraints of the English language, decided that they would have a competition and prizes would be awarded—“Ooh!” squeaked Greg Ashenden excitedly—but that first of all, Son Altesse must absolutely receive the prize for “Most Literal.”

    “And ‘Worse Rhymed’,” noted Mr Beresford.

    “We are not yet sure of that, sir; why, we have not yet heard Mr Shirley Rowbotham’s piece,” replied Raffaella calmly. Ignoring the splutters that this remark provoked from most of the gentlemen present, she seized a sheet of paper and, tearing it into the very approximate shape of a medal, wrote upon it “Most Literal. Best in Class” and, gaily requesting a pin of Miss Hewitt, pinned it to the Prince’s coat. The result covered half of his chest but Henri-Louis did not appear displeased by this.

    “I shall win one of those or perish in the attempt!” swore Mr Greg.

    “Better get the hearse ready, then,” noted Mr Rollo.

    As several gentlemen were audibly taking similar vows, more pens were rung for, and a sufficiently busy period ensued. After a little one or two ladies, Raffaella foremost amongst them, were seen to be circulating amongst the literary ones, giggling.

    The effort proved, as certain persons had guessed from the outset, to be beyond the powers of some who made the mistake of attempting it, and in the end scarce half a dozen finished efforts were read aloud. A serious sonnet by Mr Jerry Brantwell was declared unanimously to be “Most Literary.” He duly accepted his medal, blushing frightfully, blissfully unaware that most of the males present were looking at him with kindly tolerance writ all over their faces. Mr Beresford’s effort was awarded “Most Succinct.” It was certainly that, being composed of the two words: “Carpe diem.” Several eyes watched narrowly as Raffaella pinned his medal to his Corinthian chest, but could discern no interesting emotions in either party.

    Miss Bon-Dutton, with a certain sparkle in her eye, then requested Mr Greg Ashenden’s opus.

    “Well, I am not a very poetic fellow,” he said sadly.

    “Piker,” noted Mr Rollo happily.

    “Very well, then.” Greg rose, looking soulful. He bowed deeply to Henri-Louis. “It is a short ode, or effusion, in the Byronic manner—”

    “Sit down!” called Mr Shirley Rowbotham immediately.

    “Quiet,” said Raffaella sternly. “Every man has the right to make a fool of himself in his own way.”

    There was general laughter, but at last Greg was allowed to proceed.

    “It is a short ode, or effusion, in the Byronic manner, addressed, with your permission, to Your Highness.”

    His Highness bowed affably, and Greg gave forth modestly with:

“The Bourbon came down like a wolf on the fold,

And scattered our cohorts with verse new of old.”

    He stopped.

    “Pray go on,” said His Highness courteously.

    “That’s it,” replied Greg in mild surprise.

    The company, led by Son Altesse, duly collapsed.

    “‘Most Byronic’?” suggested Mr Shirley, after some brow-wrinkling.

    “It must be: I think no-one else has attempted anything Byronic!” noted Eudora gaily. No-one had, so it was awarded the medal on the spot.

    “I shall treasure this,” Mr Greg assured Raffaella, opening his eyes very wide at her.

    “Of course,” she agreed graciously.

    Taken unawares, Mr Greg collapsed in splutters. Though emerging from them to note: “All right, Shirley, at least if I was merely Byronic, I was damned brief. Can you do better?”

    “No. Think I deserve a medal for sparing the company,” he said, looking hopeful.

    “Sicuro! ‘Most Considerate,’ dear Mr Shirley!” cried Raffaella, bouncing up immediately to bestow it. Several gentleman choked, but Mr Shirley appeared very happy indeed to receive it.

    “I was hoping,” Eudora then admitted, “that Mr Shirley would entirely vanquish me in my class. Oh, dear.”

    “May we enquire,” said the young Prince with a sparkle his eye, “what is your class, ma’am?”

    “I am afraid it is ‘Most Impertinent,’ sir. It seemed to… compose itself,” she said sadly.

    Shoulders shaking, Henri-Louis got up, bowed, and offered to read it out himself. He went into a delighted spluttering fit before he could so.

    “I’ll read it, sir,” offered Greg coolly.

    Shaking, Henri-Louis handed it to him.

     Greg read out without a flicker:

“H.-L. could write no verse,

Ronsard could write no English,

And so betwixt them both, you see,

They ended up with gibberish.”

    All of the gentlemen without exception uttered loud yelps and collapsed in laughter. One or two of the ladies, however, notably the Lacey sisters, looked, though trying to smile, somewhat horrified.

    “We shall entitle it ‘Lèse majesté,’,” said Henri-Louis solemnly, “and award you the prize for ‘Most—’ Bother, there is not an English word. “Téméraire?” he said hopefully to Raffaella

    “Er…”

    “Temerarious,” said Mr Beresford calmly. “My felicitations, Miss Bon-Dutton.”

    “Thank you, Mr Beresford,” replied Eudora feebly.

    “May I do the honours?” he asked politely.

    “No!” said the Prince fending him off with a cross elbow. “I shall pin it on her myself! Voilà!” He pinned it on her bosom, smiling.

    After Geddings had noted that she would cherish that, the company remembered that his Lordship had not read his piece, and fell upon him ravenously.

    “I say, don’t make him,” said Mr Rollo uneasily, as Mr Shirley Rowbotham, a young man in Hussar’s uniform, and Mr “Val” Valentine all hauled his Lordship to his feet.

    “Oh, pooh!” cried Mr Val gaily. The more so since his own chest now wore a paper medal inscribed: “Most Plagiarised.” Mr Valentine had simply writ out Shakespeare’s Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Quite a feat of memory, for him, as his cronies had not failed to note. “If a fellow scribbles away at a literary salon, he must expect to be required to read the result!”

    “The thing is,” said Geddings plaintively, “I have not a poetic soul. I fear my poor effort may shatter the mood.”

    After that, of course he was forced to read it immediately. Geddings remained on his feet, did not consult his paper, and said to the company in the most conversational of tones:

With all of these hectorings, day after day,

To gather us rosebuds while we may,

I’m sure it’s a wonder there’s any blooms left;

Our gardens and hedges should all be bereft.

But somehow, as summer reliably rolls round,

With roses and briars the hedgerows abound.

So maybe what Nature is trying to say,

Is Time flies to renewal, and not to decay.

    There was a concerted gasp, and then the company burst into laughing, tumultuous applause. And his Lordship’s poem was unanimously voted “Best In Show.” Possibly not more than half the room registered Lady Caro Kellaway’s jealous pout as the Contessa pinned his medal on and Geddings kissed her hand.

    The day being now considerately advanced, Eudora had just caused the Madeira to be brought in and the gentlemen, having raised their glasses to Lord Geddings, were raising them again, somewhat less seriously, to Raffaella, and Mr “Val” was declaiming his plagiarised poem, when the footman entered to announce: “Sir John Stevens, ma’am.”

    “You are too late to receive a medal, Stevens, unless it be for ‘Most Tardy’,” noted Geddings coolly as Eudora moved forward uncertainly.

    Sir John bowed, his face unsmiling. “Good afternoon, Miss Bon-Dutton. I am not here in the expectation of receiving medals, but in that of retrieving my nephew. Come along, Jerry.”

    Most of the older persons present at Number 12 Adams Crescent that afternoon were to realise quite clearly that if Mr Jerry Brantwell had the sense of, as Mr Rollo Valentine was to put it, a two-year old infant with its curls uncut, the moment would have passed off with nothing but a minor feeling of embarrassment. Unfortunately Mr Jerry, who was already very flushed, the which was possibly due to the consumption of a large glass of Madeira on top of nothing but a cup of tea since his midday meal quite some hours since, flushed up even more and cried: “No! I have every right to be here, and you are not my guardian, sir! And I shall do as I please! And what is more, if you say one word against the Contessa, I shall drop you where you stand!”

    There was a horrid silence. Sir John was about as white as his nephew was red, and his long mouth was very tight.

    Then Mr Beresford stepped forward. “Well, I don’t think you will do that, Brantwell, for Sir John is accustomed to box at Jackson’s, y’know. But may I offer to perform the task for you? Always in the event,” he noted, bowing formally to Sir John, “that it should be required.”

    At this Henri-Louis recovered from his stupefaction—not least at seeing Sir John Stevens at a loss for words—and also stepped forward. “I shall of course be delighted to hold your coat for you, Jack, mon cher. Though I am sure it will not be required.”

    “No, it will not be required,” said the baronet tightly, bowing to the Prince. “Good afternoon, sir. –Miss Bon-Dutton, I must beg your pardon for intruding upon your salon. My nephew, as I think perhaps he may recall,” he said, giving him a very hard look, “is due to dine this evening with an aunt who lives some way out of London. “

    Mr Jerry, who had had more than time to regret he had ever opened his mouth, gulped and muttered: “Yes. Had forgot. Er, very sorry, Miss Bon-Dutton,” he said, not meeting her eye.

    Taking a deep breath, Eudora repeated silently to herself the adage that Rome was not built in a day, and instead of apologising abjectly to Sir John for the whole thing, was enabled to respond calmly: “Not at all, Mr Brantwell. We are, of course, very happy to see you whenever you wish to call. But perhaps you had best go, you must be not be late at your aunt’s.”

    “No, of course not,” said Raffaella brightly. “Indeed, you must go. But we were so very glad to see you, and your poem was so lovely! And for next week, it is all to be ballads, you know, and you must absolutely promise to write us one!” She held out her hand to him with her most charming smile.

    “Delighted,” croaked Mr Brantwell, bowing very low over it.

    “We must take our leave, too, I think,” said Henri-Louis as Sir John then seized his nephew’s arm in a grip of steel and, bowing grimly to Miss Bon-Dutton and ignoring the Contessa dalla Rovere entirely, led him out.

    Sending up blessings for the Royal tact, Eudora allowed him to kiss her hand, thanked him for coming and, very thankfully, bade goodbye to the gentlemen who had the sense and the manners to take His Highness’s hint.

    “Thank you, Mr Beresford,” said Raffaella unaffectedly, holding out her hand to him just as he had started to wish her a formal farewell.

    “Not at all,” he said colourlessly, though his lean cheeks had flushed up a little.

    “I thought your short poem was very clever,” she said, twinkling at him. “And if it was calculated to deflate our literary pretensions a little, none the worse for that!”

    “I’m gratified, Contessa. May I thank you for a pleasant afternoon?”

    “Wait,” said Raffaella, seizing his arm.

     Mr Beresford stared at her.

    Smiling a little, Raffaella unpinned the large paper medal from his Corinthian coat.

    “Oh—thank you,” said Jack numbly. “I had forgot it was there.”

    Raffaella just nodded, dimpling, and crumpled the paper up.

    “Will you drive out with me?” he said abruptly.

    “Well, not if this is to show the world your opinion of Sir John Stevens’s opinion of me, no, sir. Though I concede the kindness of the thought.”

    “It is not,” said Jack, going very red. “Merely to give myself the pleasure of your company.”

    “Wuh-well, yes, I should like to,” she said shyly.

    “Thank you. –May I?” He held out his hand. Raffaella looked at him uncertainly, and then, realising he was asking for his medal back, feebly put the crumpled paper into his hand.

    “Thank you. Tomorrow morning?”

    “Yes. Thank you,” said Raffaella weakly.

    He bowed, unsmiling, and was gone.

    “Dio mio,” she muttered to herself.

    Greg Ashenden had been an interested observer of this little scene. “I suppose,” he said calmly to his hostess as it finished: “you will be wishing for our room rather than our company. So I’ll take this off. –Rollo, leave that poor young lady alone,” he said severely as Rollo was seen to seize Nellie’s hand and bow very low over it.

    “I am not a poor defenceless young lady, though I thank you for your gallantry, sir,” said Nellie cheerfully. “Well, Mr Rollo, if you should happen to be in the Park of a morning, we may well see you,” she admitted, “though it will necessitate rising before noon; can you do that, do you think?” she asked earnestly.

    Choking slightly, Greg grabbed his arm and dragged him away before he could make even more of a fool of himself—if that were humanly possible.

    “We must go, too,” said Nellie as Lady Caro did not speak.

    “Oh!” she said jumping. “Yes, of course!”

    Raffaella had come up to them arm-in-arm with Katie, smiling. “If the Duchess permits it, after poor Mr Jerry’s little scene,” she said to the Lacey sisters with a whimsical grimace, “you must all come again! And thank you so much for coming, Lady Caro. Without you it would have been fribbles and girls and very little fashion or grace.”

    “Oh! I am sure I did not contribute anything!” she gasped, blushing and very startled.

    “Of course you did, and we were very flattered you could come.”

    With that Katie and Nellie composedly led the Lacey sisters out and, there being now none left but themselves, Eudora frankly collapsed onto a sofa.

    Raffaella looked uncertainly from her to Miss Hewitt.

    Calmly the little spinster lady poured a glass of Madeira. “Drink it, my dear.”

    Limply Eudora drank it.

    “Silly man,” said Miss Hewitt on a firm note.

    Eudora was past asking whether she meant Sir John or his idiot nephew. She merely nodded feebly.

Next chapter:

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