15
In Which Mr Beresford Returns To The Great Metropolis, & Does Not Like What He Finds There
Mr Beresford having decided, more especially in the wake of his conversation with Mr Valentine on the drive up, that he had best deliver Lance to Uncle George in person, they, Jenks and the curricle headed for Cumberland, while Mr Valentine, not to mention the sturdy Goodwin, escorted Miss Sissy Laidlaw and Miss Anne Buffitt by easy stages to the great metropolis. Miss Anne, it was clear, was more than somewhat in awe of the elegant Mr Valentine, and confessed to her chaperone while he was riding alongside that she had never seen a more elegant gentleman, but was he not rather stern? Miss Sissy had to blink but reflected in time, since Anne had, really, been a very silly girl, that it would not do her any positive harm to know at least one attractive gentleman who did not immediately put himself through hoops in order to please her; and so agreed placidly that Mr Valentine was all that was right-thinking.
Anne then supposed, wistfully, that Mr Valentine admired Peg very much?
“Why, yes: all the gentlemen admire Peg,” said Miss Sissy placidly, tatting. An edging for a little dress which she had silently determined to make Lilibet; for the poor little thing had nothing! The younger Laidlaws would, of course, have warned Lilibet to Look Out: it would be something hideous in olive green or bright lilac. “But I do not think he is an especial favourite.”
Anne blinked: Peg had so many admirers that she could pick and choose?
“She has quite a distinguished look,” murmured Miss Sissy, reading her mind with no difficulty whatsoever, “and then, that combination of golden curls and golden-green eyes is so very unusual. She is very much admired in London.”
It had always been Anne’s more conventional combination of bright blue eyes with the gold curls which had been admired in their little district, not the odd Peg. “I see,” she said in a chastened voice.
Brightly Miss Sissy offered to teach her to tat. Anne had been quite keen to learn the art and in fact had contemplated asking her if she would show her. But she could not help reflecting that she was now on course to become the overlooked spinster sister of the family, tatting and all. The which served her out for having been so heedless and selfish, out of course! “Yes,” she said, the jaw firming so that the resemblance to Peg became momentarily very much more pronounced. “I would, indeed. Thank you, Aunt Sissy.”
Placidly Miss Sissy provided her with a spare shuttle and a length of thread and began to show her the art of looping the thread round the fingers—yes, it was quite complex, was it not? Requiring manipulation by both hands. Most unlike crochet, yes. Yes, she had remarked that dear Maria did beautiful crochetwork, but it did not take long to master the trick of tatting, and then, you see, it was possible to produce very fine work: why, with the finest of threads the result was exactly like real lace! She watched with satisfaction as the golden curls bent determinedly over the shuttle…
“Is this it?” said Anne in a trembling voice as, at long last, the coach drew up before an imposing London mansion.
“Not dearest Jack’s house, no: this is Lady Stamforth’s residence, Stamforth House. This is Blefford Square. That,” she said, nodding at the giant pile which dominated the square, “is Blefford House.”
Numbly Anne nodded. She had assumed it to be, at the very least, a Royal palace.
Briskly Miss Sissy led the way indoors…
What with Blefford Square, the noise of the London streets, and the palace inhabited by these grand titled people who seemed to be friends of Peg’s, Anne did not even burst into tears when Peg ran up and threw her arms round her. The more so as she did not look like Peg at all, but like a terrifyingly smart London lady. She was wearing brown, which Maria had always said was a dowd’s colour, with deep yellow ribbons, and Anne could not have begun to say what they had done to her hair…
“So?” said Lady Stamforth with a laugh in her voice as, the young ladies having kindly been dispatched upstairs, she and Miss Sissy sat down in the pink salon.
“Chastened,” said Miss Sissy primly.
Lady Stamforth collapsed in giggles, nodding terrifically.
“And how has Peg been, Lady Stamforth?”
Grimacing, her Ladyship proceeded to give Miss Sissy the details.
“Hm,” she said. “And it was only in the wake of her father’s letter, you say?”
“Vairy largely, yes. The refusal to hear a word een poor Mr Beresford’s favour was definitely a result of the letter.”
“I see. He had an interview with her father which put him in a very bad mood, not long before we left.”
Her Ladyship nodded. “The man must have ordered heem to offer, I theenk.”
“My dear, it is of all things the most disastrous! For Jack was never a boy who liked to be told!” she cried, throwing up her hands.
“I know,” said her Ladyship calmly, ringing for tea. “Mr Chegwidden has put me een touch with a man who supplies some vairy different teas: I theenk you weell like them. Only pray do not tell dear Tim that I am not drinking hees brand!”
Smiling, Miss Sissy agreed that she would not tell the P.W.’s brother-in-law of this betrayal.
The tea having been sampled and admired, her Ladyship admitted: “Lewis theenks Mr Buffitt does not weesh her to take Mr Beresford, and the letter was writ precisely een order to make her so furious that she would refuse to countenance the notion.”
“But it would be such a good match for her!” she cried in bewilderment.
“Dear Miss Sissy, would that weigh weeth her father?” she said drily.
“Er—no,” she admitted in a hollow voice.
“Quite. –Deed he like Mr Valentine?”
Miss Sissy was about to prevaricate, but met her Ladyship’s sapient dark eye. “No,” she said glumly. “Dear little Bertie let it out to me that he characterised him as an imbecile.”
“I am not surprised. But too bad: eef he worked up the energy to write poor leetle Peg, I am sure eet ees the most he ever deed for any one of his children—nay, for any other human being—een hees life!” she said energetically. “We shall see Peg take your dear Jack, and leetle Anne take lovely Val Valentine before the year ees out, or my name ees not Nan Baldaya!”
The little spinster eyed her drily. “Vane, my dear,” she murmured.
Lady Stamforth forthwith gave a shriek, and collapsed in helpless giggles; admitting, once she was at the stage of blowing the perfect nose: “Thank goodness I deed not say eet een front of Lewis! Of course he would understand that eet was a mere slip of the tongue and meant less than nothing, but common-sensical though he ees, I theenk hees feelings might have been hurt.”
Miss Sissy Laidlaw, to say truth, was rather glad to hear her admit it.
“And Mr Beresford has taken Lance to Cumberland een person? That ees a vairy good sign!” she said eagerly.
“Ye-es… Well, perhaps there was the factor that if her father has ordered him to offer, he wishes to avoid seeing Peg.”
“Oh, well, yes, I can see that. But then, there are many other things that a gentleman might find to do to delay hees arrival een London, other than carry out a vairy boring duty towards a young man who does not, au fond, eenterest heem at all!” she said gaily. “No?”
On reflection, Miss Sissy was very glad to concede: “Yes.”
Over the second cup of tea she said slowly: “You know, my dear Lady Stamforth, there was something odd about the whole business of Lance. Jack seemed—urgent, somehow. And—and overly worried?”
“My dear, Damian Buffitt sounds the vairy person to make a man of hees temperament extremely urgent!”
“It was more than that. I almost fancied— Well, this sounds ridiculous, but I overheard him putting some very searching questions to Sir Horace Monday… It almost seemed to me that he expected Lance to be in some sort of danger. Er—in danger of being carried off,” she said on an apologetic note.
Lady Stamforth did not rubbish this fantastic, nay Gothick, notion. Instead she said slowly: “There was a rumour… I had eet from Cousin Tobias Vane, and you know he hears all the gossip. Eef Mr Beresford has heard the same rumour, he does vairy well to see the boy ees protected.” Miss Sissy was looking at her in horror: she said lightly: “A horreed person conceived an interest een Lance, which was not wholly an healthy interest. No, well, according to Tobias’ story, eet was the Princesse P., my dear.”
Miss Sissy’s thin little jaw dropped.
“Apparently he struck her fancy. But I do not theenk she would bother to pursue eet: eet would be too much trouble, no? Eef he were still een London eet might be a different matter.”
“Was that why Jack took him home to Beresford Hall?” she said numbly.
The P.W. was of the firm opinion that Mr Beresford had got him off to Cumberland because he was bored with him. On the other hand, there had been no need to accompany him in person, had there? So she said gaily: “I am vairy sure that ees why he took heem een person, dear Miss Sissy!”
Miss Sissy nodded numbly. And quavered: “The girls are not in danger, are they?”
“No, no! Of course not! But I should take vairy good care, eef I were you, to see that the horrid old theeng does not get a chance to speak weeth them. Eef she does not get to hear that Lance ees een Cumberland, so much the better.”
“Indeed!” she agreed fervently.
During the drive to Cumberland—where the kindly George Beresford welcomed Lance with no reservations whatsoever—and even more so during the journey down to London, Mr Beresford had ample opportunity for reflection. And would certainly have claimed, if interrogated on the matter, that he had thought it all out very thoroughly indeed. His conclusion was that it would be best to ignore the business of the damned letter. There was little hope, alas, that his little cousin would believe that Buffitt had changed his mind and not after all spoken to him on the subject. He was, on reflection, almost certain that she would see that her father had written the letter to ensure she would reject any offer from his direction; and his not referring to it must be the kindest course. …And in any case the mere idea was absurd: setting aside the fact of his not owing her anything, they had little in common, she was a harum-scarum little girl considerably his junior, she would be unsuited in almost every way for the rôle of mistress of Beresford Hall and gracious hostess of the town house, she was maddening, disobedient, obstinate— And in any case there was no question of it!
Yes, it would be best just to let her believe he was treating the whole absurd thing with the indifference it fully merited. The which, of course, he was! And as for the nonsense about not allowing the poor little thing—oh, and the sister, of course—to have another Season— Well, his mother would be home from Rome by then, and trust her to ensure that both the damned Buffitts saw sense! Firmly Mr Beresford concentrated his mind on his mother’s good sense and forcefulness. And not at all on the question of whether he in fact wished, or might ever wish, to make Peg Buffitt any sort of an offer at all.
The curricle got into town very late: the ladies were all abed. Mr Beresford was down for breakfast at his usual hour, not admitting to anyone, least of all the anxiously hovering Moffat, that he had not slept very much. The breakfast room was empty. He sat down and took up his paper, allowing the footman to pour coffee without commenting on the fact that there were two places laid.
Half an hour later Mr Beresford was still reading the paper, and there was still no sign of— He threw the paper down. “I shall ride out. Tell them to saddle up Wildfire.”
Ten minutes later he was in the hall, pulling on his gloves, when Goodwin appeared, looking his most stolid.
“Well?”
“Thought you might like a report, sir. We made it to town all right.”
“So I see. Oh—Uncle George sends you his best, Goodwin,” he recalled lamely.
“Kind of him, sir. –Willy’s a bit lame. Told them to saddle Fat Molly instead,” he said stolidly.
Mr Beresford gave him a very cold look indeed.
“Wildfire and Lady Millicent, to you, sir,” said his head groom, unmoved.
“What is it?” he asked with a sigh.
“Nothing much. Lady Stamforth’s been giving Miss Peg a few riding lessons. Well, don’t think she does much more than sit on, herself, but her head groom’s a decent fellow. And Miss Benedict, she’s not a bad little rider.”
“This explains Wildfire’s lameness, does it?” he said coldly.
“No, her Ladyship’s given her a nice little gelding. Not much bigger than a pony, but Miss Peg thinks she’s Christmas on him. Thought she might like to ride out with you this morning,” he said blandly.
“Goodwin,” said Jack Beresford very coldly indeed, “you may yet try my patience too far.”
“Peterkin, she’s called him. Think he had some fancy name, original, but Lady Stamforth, she said Miss Peg could call him whatever—”
But Mr Beresford had grabbed up his hat and crop and stalked out.
Goodwin sighed. “Added to which, did you ought to be riding yet, with that danged arm?” he muttered. “Oh, well. Fat Molly won’t try to jump nothing, nor even canter, let alone gallop, bless ’er.”
Mr Beresford returned from his ride when the morning was well advanced. The butler in person was in the hall and informed him that the ladies were in the small salon. He went in.
“Three picots, dear, and pull it firmly, not too tight: very good!” approved Miss Sissy to Anne’s bent golden head. “There you are, Jack, dear boy,” she said placidly. “How was home?”
“Good morning, Aunt Sissy. Beresford Hall is still standing, Uncle George and Aunt Mary send you their kindest regards, and Lance assures me he thinks he will be very happy there. Good morning, young ladies,” said Mr Beresford evenly.
The two Buffitt sisters replied in chorus: “Good morning, Mr Beresford,” Anne rather shy but clear, and Miss Buffitt very grim, the square chin well to the fore.
“Well, Horrible?” said Mr Beresford to his cousin’s daughter.
“I’m a young lady, too, am I?” said Horrible with a grin. “In that case, Good morning, Jack. How is the arm?”
He shrugged. “Well enough.”
“He’s in agonies, that means,” Horrible translated kindly for the company. “It’s a male thing, you see.”
“Of course!” agreed Miss Buffitt cordially, not looking in Mr Beresford’s direction. “Stoicism. Probably they learn the story of the Spartan boy at their silly male schools.”
“Stop that, girls,” said Miss Sissy mildly. “You must see what the doctor says, Jack, but I dare say it might come out of the splint very soon.”
“Moffat and I thank you on behalf of my entire wardrobe, ma’am,” he said coolly, bowing.
“Silly one. Oh, by the way, the girls tell me that dear Lady Stamforth has been giving them riding lessons.”
“Yes? Goodwin tells me that she is barely capable of sitting on, herself.”
“That is somewhat of an exaggeration. But it’s Mina who’s been teaching us, mostly,” admitted Horrible.
“And Hughes, that is her ladyship’s groom,” said Miss Buffitt, still with the chin well up.
Happily Horrible launched into fuller explanation: Hughes had been head groom to Lady Stamforth’s second husband—Mina’s father, of course—and Jack might remember him from Bath, because… Mr Beresford, alas, did not take in a word. Miss Buffitt was wholly delightful this morning, in a little grey gown with a tiny pleated frill of white at the neck, and not a touch of colour about her except the big gold-green eyes, the golden curls, and of course the dewy rose cheeks and cherry mouth—and clearly prepared to loathe him for as long as she lived. Not that that could signify—in fact it was just as well. Given that he had no interest whatsoever in her.
Mr Beresford retired into his study and instead of looking through the pile of correspondence which had accumulated in his absence, lapsed into a frowning reverie…
Lady Stamforth opened the note. She collapsed in helpless giggles.
“What?” cried her stepdaughter eagerly..
Shaking helplessly, her Ladyship handed her the note.
“Oh!” cried Mina, going very red. “Mamma, this is terrible! Stop laughing! He says Peg may not have Peterkin!”
“Goose!” gasped her Ladyship helplessly.
“But—”
“He thanks me for the gift, but says hees cousin has no need of my kind offices een thees regard—do you not see?”
“Exactly!” cried Mina angrily. “I never thought Mr Beresford could be so rude and unfeeling!”
“No,” she said feebly, mopping her eyes. “What eet ees, you see, he weell give her a horse heemself.”
Mina sat down beside her on the sofa, looking unconvinced, and read the note again. “No, he won’t. ‘In the event my cousin should express any equestrian needs, I shall provide a mount for her for my own stables.’ The point is, she won’t express any, Mamma. He must know that as well as you or I!”
“Mina, can you not see that he ees horreedly jealous that I gave her a gift which he could have given her—and which he should have thought to offer her?”
“No,” she said frankly.
“Pooh! Ring for pen and paper, darling—een fact, you may write eet for me, eef you like!”
Mina rang, but said suspiciously: “Write what?”
“The answer which thees note fully expects, seelly one! ‘Lady Stamforth presents her compliments, etcetera, and weell be only too happy to receive back Peterkin and sell heem to Mr Beresford!’”
Mina gulped. “I don’t read that into it at all.”
“No, because you are just an eenexperienced leetle girl!” said her stepmamma with a laugh.
Reddening, Miss Benedict re-read Mr Beresford’s note. “Pooh,” she said feebly.
“Shall we have a leetle wager on eet?” said her stepmamma airily as the footman brought in her writing case.
Poor Mina went redder than ever but managed to say sternly: “Nan, you must know that that would be beyond the pale, and that Papa would not care for us to do any such thing!”
“Oh? Een that case, perhaps you weell care to concede that I am right?” She watched in some amusement as her stepdaughter thought it over.
“I shall not concede you are right. But I shall write it for you, if you wish. And I shall reserve judgement.”
Smiling, her Ladyship enfolded her in a warm embrace. “You are so vairy like dearest Hugo!” she said gaily.
Mina smiled limply: that was her own Papa, of course. One just could not stay cross with dearest Nan for more than five seconds at a time! But nevertheless, she was far from sure she was right in this instance…
Mr Goodwin scratched his chin. “I get it, sir. So, what’s next? We send Peterkin back to the Stamforth stables, you pay over the gelt, her Ladyship sends a note to say we can fetch ’im back, we send Tom or Jim over to fetch—”
“That will DO!” shouted his master, bright red.
Mr Goodwin eyed him sardonically.
“I merely wished to indicate that the damned creature now has some right to be eating its head off in our stables! And for God’s sake, take some of the condition off it, it’s a walking tub of lard!”
“Miss Peg, she ain’t learnt to trot, yet.”
“Then get out on the slug yourself!” he shouted.
“Ssh, you’re scaring the nags,” said his henchman stolidly. “Can’t do that, sir: ’e’s only used to a lady’s saddle.”
Mr Beresford took a very deep breath, made an heroic effort, and refrained from saying it. And turned on his heel and left him to it.
Exactly how Mr Beresford had ended up next Lady Reggie Bon-Dutton at the whist table was not clear to the gentleman. Though perhaps the lady, who was not precisely bosom-bows with the evening’s hostess, could have hazarded a guess. They were both aware that their partners were hoping for a scene. Though as Lady Reggie’s partner was Jimmy Hattersby-Lough, Mr Beresford was also aware that Hatters would possibly not provoke one—not out of respect for his, Jack’s, feelings, but because the arm was now out of its splint. His own partner being that Mrs Carthew who was exceeding disgruntled at having recently been dumped by Geddings, it was, however, odds-on that she would.
After not very long Mrs Carthew congratulated Lady Reggie on the wonderful portrait that was this year’s sensation at the Royal Academy. Scarcely had her Ladyship’s smiling thanks and disclaimer died away than she was adding: “One of course is waiting with bated breath to see if his portrait of little Miss Buffitt will be in the same style.”
There was a short and sufficiently nasty silence.
“According to old Fitz-Clancy—though I dare say he may have it wrong,” said Mr Hattersby-Lough airily, “it is rather in the style of Greuze.”
Both ladies were now looking eagerly at Mr Beresford.
“He would know, would he?” said that gentleman smoothly.
“Doubt it, dear boy. Never heard he was much of a connoisseur.” Mr Hattersby-Lough made an artful pause. “Not of paintings, that is.”
Mrs Carthew gave a delighted squeak and collapsed in giggles, hitting him playfully with her fan. Lady Reggie smiled slowly, and allowed herself to direct a malicious look at Mr Beresford.
“I believe,” he said calmly, “that it is your move, Lady Reggie.”
“What? Oh!” Somewhat limply her Ladyship played her card, and the game proceeded. All present being aware it was, so to speak, far from over.
Sure enough, before very long Mr Hattersby-Lough, languidly discarding, drawled: “You was out of town for an age, Jack. –Was he not, Lady Reggie?”
“Was he? I did not realize,” she said airily.
“Well played, Hatters,” drawled Mr Beresford. “I fear we are about to lose ignominiously, Mrs Carthew.”
They did. Mrs Carthew tried to smile, and hit Mr Hattersby-Lough lightly with her fan, but it was clear she was very much put out. And declaring she would see if it changed her luck, rustled away to the faro table.
“A pony says it won’t,” drawled Mr Hattersby-Lough. “Even if Geddings ain’t taking the bank today.”
Lady Reggie gave a trill of laughter. “Too cruel, dear Mr Hattersby-Lough!”
“Aye: unworthy of you, Hatters,” agreed his old friend, shuffling the cards.
Mr Hattersby-Lough looked at him sideways. “Make it écarté, shall we? Care to, Lady Reggie? A rose amongst thorns, so to speak?”
She fluttered the sooty lashes. “Too flattering, my dear! It would be delightful, of course—unless perhaps Mr Beresford’s duties as a chaperon call him hence?”
Given that the sound of the merry laughter of the Buffitt sisters could be heard clearly from an adjoining room where the younger people were playing at lottery tickets—and given, also, that the laughter of Bobby C.-S., Rollo Valentine, Roddy Calhoun, and half a dozen other young fribbles could be likewise heard—it was not perhaps altogether surprising that Mr Hattersby-Lough, sniggering, should have rejoined to this not-very-witty sally: “Certainly turned up surrounded by youngsters, didn’t he? By all means run off and keep an eye on that gaggle of little gals, Jack, old man: we shall quite understand!”
“How many was it?” asked her Ladyship carelessly. “Five?”
“Oh, half a dozen at the very least, ma’am. His house is full of ’em. Very nice, y’know, if one cares for the unfledged sort. –Deal, shall I?”
Mr Beresford’s mouth tightened. He got up. “You may deal for piquet, Hatters. Excuse me, Lady Reggie. You are quite right: I should look to my duties.”
Raising his eyebrows slightly, Mr Hattersby-Lough dealt to the very flushed Lady Reggie, kindly refraining from comment. Though not from winning the hand.
The spectacle at the lottery-tickets table was all that Mr Beresford had imagined and worse. Bobby Cantrell Sprague, seated between the Buffitt sisters, was clearly unable to control the continuous smirk. To Miss Buffitt’s right, Roddy Calhoun was almost as bad. To Miss Anne’s left, Captain Lord Ludo Delahunty was likewise. Mr Beresford retreated to Aunt Sissy’s sofa.
“I wish I could paint,” murmured the little spinster lady after some time had passed without her nephew’s addressing her.
He jumped. “What? Why?”
“Anne and Peg together.”
“Er—with that ass Bobby C.-S. between them, Aunt? What should you call it: ‘Narcissus with Attendant Nymphs’?”
“Something like that,” she said placidly. “‘The Youth of Paris, Venus and Diana’, perhaps.”
“Er—mm.” He fidgeted. “She has not mentioned that damned portrait Greenstreet started, has she?”
“Well, not to me, my dear, but then I have not been back so very much longer than you.”
“No.”
“I do not think she would deliberately flout your wishes, Jack.”
His nostrils flared. “Do you not?”
Miss Sissy looked at him doubtfully. “Should I ask her?”
“No, I shall find out for myself, if I have to choke it out of the Greenstreet creature.”
“What have you heard?” she asked uneasily.
Mr Beresford was now very flushed. “Nothing. Hatters hinted at something, that is all.”
“You know, I never much liked him, as a boy,” she said placidly. “Very clever, of course. But a little sly, I thought.”
“You were right,” he said grimly.
“Mm. A pity Mr Valentine is not here tonight,” she murmured.
Mr Beresford looked sardonically at the pretty picture of Miss Anne Buffitt in borrowed finery laughing immoderately at some feeble sally of young Captain Lord Ludo Delahunty’s. “Is it, indeed?”
“Yes,” said Miss Sissy placidly. “Why not invite Peg to play piquet, Jack, if you are tired of the boring old whist?”
Her nephew’s mouth opened and shut.
“You are right, of course: a game, I have always thought, suited only to older persons.”
“Aunt Sissy,” said Jack Beresford in a furious undervoice, “that will do!”
Miss Sissy’s bright little eyes twinkled, but she was obediently silent.
The Mediaeval page showed Mr Beresford up to Mr Greenstreet’s studio very properly, in fact so properly that the caller was immediately convinced the lad knew it all. Whatever it was.
The artist was standing before a large easel in his working clothes: if Mr Beresford had not been in a very bad mood he would have smiled to see that the sparkling white smock commonly worn for elegant sittings was replaced by a much, much grimier one, liberally bespattered with splashes, spots and streaks of paint. The velvet beret was discarded and his greyed bubbly curls were in wild disarray. He turned crossly as the door opened, and uttered: “Mercurio, how many times do I ’ave to tell yer, not when I’m work— Oh. ’Morning, Mr Beresford.”
Mr Beresford eyed him sardonically. “’Morning, Greenstreet. Trust it ain’t an inconvenient time.”
“Never for you, Mr Beresford,” replied the artist unctuously, bowing. “Pray, do step in.”
Mr Beresford had already stepped in. He gave him a dry look, but said only: “May I see?”
“Most certainly, dear sir: most certainly!”
Then it wasn’t the picture of Peg, obviously. Mr Beresford came to look. “Good Heavens,” he said weakly. It was a portrait of l’Amiral du Fresne: in uniform, the chest covered with orders and ribbons; and the pose was exactly—exactly—that of Lawrence’s portrait of Old Hooky! True, the Admiral was a short man, very broad in the shoulders, bearing no resemblance to His Grace. Nevertheless. “Why?” he said faintly.
“The Admiral requested a noble and striking pose. You know him, sir? –Aye,” he said as the viewer nodded numbly. “Well, a Frenchman, of course. They do not hesitate to express sentiments which we English would consider better left unsaid.”
“Y— Uh, you mean he actually used the phrase? God. Uh—look, he may be French, Greenstreet, but—uh—”
“The background will be very different, sir, very different,” said the artist earnestly. “I assure you the gentleman is very pleased with the pose.”
“Er—well, he is said to rate himself that high!” he admitted with a sudden laugh.
Mr Greenstreet bowed. “So one had assumed, sir.”
“Why now, though?” he wondered idly. “Thought he was retired? Unless they’ve made him the equivalent of First Lord, something like that?”
“No, it ain’t that. The gent’s contemplating matrimony.”
Mr Beresford stared.
“Know the lady, do you, sir?”
“I— Greenstreet, did he say as much?”
“Yes, he spoke quite free: very pleasant gent. Ain’t he, Mercurio?”
“’E give me a guinea!” piped the page, grinning.
“There you are, sir: very pleasant and liberal-handed gent. Made no bones about it: said he would present it the lady as a token of his affection on the occasion of their fiançailles.”
“Engagement, that means!” piped the page.
“Shut it, Mercurio: he knows,” said Mr Greenstreet in tolerant tones. “Now, what can we do for you, sir? Wishful to commission something, was you? Or merely to view?”
“I shall come to that in a moment. Just tell me, did the Admiral mention the name of the lady to whom he is expecting to become affianced?”
“Oh, no, sir,” he said meekly.
“Said she was a lady of infinite charm!” piped the page.
“Eh? When?” demanded the artist, staring.
“When I took ’im downstairs, Pa. Acos I said, was she a pretty lady? Then he said that. And give me the guinea!” he reported, beaming.
By no stretch of the imagination could the Princesse P. be described as a lady of infinite charm. In that case Bompey du Fresne must seriously be thinking of Aunt Fanny. And in that case…
“Something wrong, sir?” asked Mr Greenstreet, very bright-eyed.
“No. Merely, I have remembered that there is something I should mention to a certain lady.”
“’T’ain’t ’er!” piped the page helpfully.
Greenstreet, Jack Beresford was glad to see, had gone red as a beet. “Not Miss Buffitt, lad,” he said levelly.
“No, sir,” agreed the innocent page. “Acos when she seen the picture, she laughed like nuffink, and said it’s a very grand old lady, what she don’t think’ll ’ave ’im!”
“Older,” corrected Mr Greenstreet, very faintly. “Get back to the front hall, Mercurio.”
“Aw! It’s too early: there won’t be no— I’m going!” he said hastily, exiting.
“I apologise for him, sir,” said his father lamely.
“Not at all. He’s a very bright lad. Where is it?”
Glumly the artist led him over to a large canvas which was propped against a wall, and removed its cover.
Mr Beresford gasped, and took a step backwards.
“Oh, Gawd!” said the artist in dismay. “It weren’t this one, after all!”
He took a very deep breath indeed. “No, but thank you so much for showing it me, Greenstreet.”
The picture was in the Classical vein, its central figure being a golden-haired, smiling Venus on a swing. To the right, a young Pan, unmistakably Bobby Cantrell-Sprague with his curls ruffled, was offering her a gift: kneeling, arms outstretched. The Venus on the swing, a little above him, was clearly just about to laugh: Peg Buffitt to the life. To the left, the swing had two attendants, one of which was Mercurio the page à la Cupidon, and t’other of which was Miss Anne Buffitt. None of the protagonists was clothed.
“The figures was from stock,” said the artist lamely.
“Rubbish, I’ve seen Bobby C.-S. stripped, at Jackson’s.”
“Um, well, it’s him, but then, do a man count?” said the artist miserably.
Mr Beresford took another of those breaths. “Did you seriously envisage showing this?”
“I thought it was rather good. Well, I concede the style is somewhat old-fashioned, but the modern Classical vein would be too cold for such lovely young—um, persons. Um, no. Um, thought a patron might—um—care to,” he ended miserably.
“Mrs C.-S. would doubtless be thrilled to see her youngest boy paying homage to the Buffitt sisters, but I fear she will never be able to meet your price. And his father is a sensible man who would laugh in your face at the mere suggestion. And very probably tear a strip off Bobby for not behaving gentlemanly.”
“The young ladies was clothed at all moments,” he said glumly.
“Do not attempt either to justify yourself or to explain,” said Mr Beresford through his teeth.
Mr Greenstreet was miserably silent.
“Where is the other one?”
Glumly Mr Greenstreet led him over to it. It was finished, more than fulfilling its early promise.
“Lovely,” said Mr Beresford through his teeth.
“Sir, as Gawd’s my witness, the young lady swore— No, well. But it is the best thing I’ve ever done.”
“Then it’s a great pity that, along with its fellow over there, it will never see the light of day, is it not?” he said sweetly.
“Sir, you can’t! Well, t’other one, that’s just a trifle. But not this!” he protested, nearly in tears.
“You may pack them up, and send them round to my house. Here is my card: it has the direction on it.”
The artist took it numbly.
“And name your price.”
Brightening, he named it.
“Half that,” said Jack Beresford brutally.
“But— Very well, sir. Half. But it’s a barg—” He met his client’s eye, and subsided.
“Think yourself lucky I don’t haul you through the courts,” he said nastily, going.
Mr Greenstreet tottered over to a battered sofa, sank onto it, and mopped his streaming brow with the hem of his paint-smeared smock.
Though it was still early, the Fürstin agreed to receive her nephew, since he had sent up a message saying it was urgent. She was abed: Mr Beresford, though he had been privileged before, blinked rather at the lace frills and pale lilac bows composing the wisp of a cap, the further lace frills on the exiguous nightgown, rather a lot of which was on display, and the opulence of the two wraps, one a lace shawl and the other pale lilac watered silk lined with, ye gods, white fur. Not to say at the amount of pale aunt that was on display. The opulence of the frivolous pale lilac bedroom was of course to be expected, though since he had last seen it she had had it completely decked out in lilac watered silk. Apart from the floor, which was adorned with something so very beautiful, in shades of lilac and rose on cream, that he was instantly persuaded she must have had it woven to order. No wonder poor old Cousin Georg was wont to complain she was costing him a fortune, never mind what his father had left her in her own right. The room was filled with bowls of white roses, it being now too late in the year for actual lilacs. She had evidently been breakfasting: there was an exquisite tray of ebony inlaid with ivory figures on the silken lilac coverlet, and on it some pieces from the ornate gilded and garlanded breakfast set which according to Georg’s martyred wife formed properly part of the von Maltzahn-Dressen patrimony and should never have left Germany.
She held out a languid white arm. Mr Beresford came to salute the hand. Deliciously scented, of course. “What on earth is so urgent, dear boy?” she murmured, smothering a yawn.
He grimaced, and drew up a chair to the bedside. “I suppose it is not so urgent, really, Aunt Fanny. I—uh—there is something you should know.”
“Oh?”
“Er—you remember my young cousin, Lance Buffitt?”
“I am not yet in my dotage, dear boy,” she drawled.
“No. I beg your pardon. Um, well, I don’t know if you are aware of it, but while he was in London, Lance attracted the notice of the Princesse P.”
“Forgive me, but his type, or so one is led to believe, is apt to attract that sort of person.”
“Yes. Well, the hag purported to offer him— No, offered him, I think it was genuine, as far as it went,” he admitted, scowling over it, “a post as some sort of librarian.”
“The villa,” she identified languidly. “They say that library is in shocking condition. Well—half a dozen generations buying any volume that took their fancy, and merely dumping it there?” She shrugged.
“Mm. An offer of the kind which you might expect went along with it.”
“Yes? –Pray pass me that dish of preserves, Jack.”
Jack passed his aunt the small gilded bowl, not remarking on the fact that the miniature landscape adorning it featured, in addition to some very bright blue sky and some apple-green grass, two unclad persons in an interesting pose. The breakfast set had been made to her late husband’s specifications: every piece with an unique little scene. The Fürst had had very definite tastes.
Fanny ate jam with a tiny gold and enamel spoon. Jack swallowed a sigh: the set of little spoons was exquisite: about the only thing in the room which he would not have minded owning. “Juliette de Montmorency was pleased, was she, Jack?”
His mouth tightened. “I rather think so. Since the pair of them shared him.”
“One had heard a very ti-ny rumour to that effect. –Taste,” she murmured, holding out the spoon.
Resignedly he tasted the yellow jam. It was very odd.
“Peach, my dear. From the hothouses, though Georg does attempt to grow them espaliered along a south-facing wall. At the moment the German winters are winning, on the whole,” she drawled. “The taste of almond is because the cook puts some of the kernels in.”
He looked blankly at the remains of the jam.
“Naturally they are removed before serving.”
“Er—mm. Very unusual. Ain’t it a waste of peaches, though?”
She licked the spoon. “Not if one cares for it. Is the rumour that you nipped the affaire in the bud also true?”
“What? Oh—yes. I hauled him out of her house and took him up to—” He stopped: his aunt was choking helplessly.
“Oh, dear!” she gasped eventually, “One had not heard precisely that! I wish I had been privileged to witness it!”
“It was entirely tame. I did not see Her Highness.”
“No? I am surprised that she let him go. Or was one taste”—she glanced at the jam dish and away again—“sufficient?”
“I thought perhaps it was, initially. But she subsequently spoke to me, and let it be known that she was not best pleased.”
“Ah?” The Fürstin finished the jam, with evident relish.
“Mm. Said that if she should get him back, I would not find it so easy to effect a second rescue.”
“How mel-o-dra-ma-tic,” drawled Fanny von Maltzahn-Dressen, raising the delicate brows.
“Er—mm. There is a little more, I am afraid. She brought up, more or less in the same breath, the subject of l’Amiral du Fresne’s admiration of yourself.”
“How very odd,” she said dulcetly.
He winced. “Yes, wasn’t it? This was quite some weeks back, and I ignored it.”
“And what has changed? Is the boy back in town?”
“No, he is safely in Cumberland with my own people guarding him,” said Jack Beresford very grimly indeed. “Nevertheless, I thought I had best mention the thing to you, since I very recently learned that the Admiral—well, not to beat about the bush, that he has commissioned a portrait of himself, which he will present to his intended on the occasion of the engagement. One can only conclude it must be yourself.”
There was a little moment of silence. Then the Fürstin said lightly: “I am so glad we are not beating about the bush, nephew.”
“Er—mm,” he said, biting his lip. “The Princesse P. did not go so far as to state the thing in so many words, but she did suggest that I might care to discuss the matter with you, in the event,”—he swallowed involuntarily—“that we should both concede there is anything to discuss.”
“Ah.” Fanny stared blankly for some time at the lilac silk drapings of her bedroom window. At last she said: “I trust you did not indicate to Son Altesse that in fact I have no interest in receiving Bompey’s advances?”
“No, of course not.”
“Ah.” She picked up the tiny gold spoon and, though it now had no jam on it, licked it very delicately with the tip of her tongue. Aunt or not, Mr Beresford had to swallow hard.
After quite some time she dropped the spoon into the bowl with a little clattering noise. “Fas-cin-a-ting,” she murmured. “It has quite—ah—enlivened? Yes, I think one must say, enlivened—my morning.”
Jack Beresford went very red and leaned forward urgently. “Aunt Fanny, I would not dream of asking it, if you had not yourself laughed over du Fresne! But since you do not care for the fellow, could you not let the old hag believe that you have agreed to give him up?”
“This would result in her not pursuing the boy, would it?”
“Yes, I am sure of it.”
“Mm. But given that he is penniless, and that one has heard she is entirely generous to her—er—mignons, would it not be quite a good thing for him?”
“No, it would not!” he choked. “A pair of debauched old hags like those?”
Fanny’s delicate brows rose. “How very bourgeois you are, Jack.”
He got up, his fists clenched. “So you will not help?”
“Oh, well, I did not absolutely say that. But I am certainly not interested in doing anything that could please her.”
He hesitated. “Naturally you would not appear in the matter. But if you would allow me to indicate to her that you intend refusing the Admiral?”
“Oh, but I have not made up my mind about that at all,” she said, opening her limpid eyes very wide at him.
“Rubbish, you have been sniggering over it since the beginning of the Season!” said Jack furiously.
“Dear boy, do not shout, I beg,” she sighed. “Admiral du Fresne is not, after all, no-one. I dare say we could have a pleasant life together. And his interest is quite genuine, you know.”
“For the Lord’s sake! You are not in love with the fellow, you find him ridiculous, and you are most certainly not in need of a second husband!”
“Jack, you understand nothing; mais rien du tout—du tout,” said his Aunt Fanny with a finality that was all the more horrid because it was utterly languid. She rang the bell. “Go away, I beg.”
His mouth grim, Mr Beresford allowed himself to be shown out.
The Fürstin leaned back against her piles of fine linen and lace-edged silken pillows, pouting. She was not a woman much given to self-deception, and she now recognized very clearly that it had been a mistake to have given in to the temptation of having the very masculine Mr Beresford shown into her bedchamber. The fact that he was her nephew was, of course, immaterial: he was a wholly desirable specimen of his kind. But, alas, out of reach.
“Bourgeois,” she repeated crossly, half under her breath.
Any tactician could have told Mr Beresford that it was a mistake to attempt to interview Miss Buffitt while he was still simmering with anger over his aunt’s refusal to cooperate in the matter of the Princesse P. Unfortunately there were no such present in his handsome town house.
Peg’s heart was beating very fast, but she went into his study with her chin well to the fore. “Did you wish to speak to me, sir? I can assure you, I have driven out innumerable times, now, with Lord Michael Fitz-Clancy, Admiral Dauntry, and Mr Bobby C.-S., and they have all behaved like perfect gentlemen.”
Mr Beresford’s long mouth tightened. “I’m glad to hear it. It is not about that.”
“No?” said Peg, endeavouring to look soulful and trying to ignore the fact that her knees were showing a tendency to tremble. “Is it about the riding lessons? I know I made an idiot of myself, and the Park is so fashionable, but then, we generally chose a secluded spot. And I did not actually fall off, for mostly Mr Rollo Valentine, or Mr Roddy Calhoun, or Mr Bobby would ride very close on either side, you see, so I could not possibly—”
“No!”
There was a short pause.
“Lady Stamforth wished to make me a gift of a bran-new riding habit, but I thought you would say I should not accept it, kindly though it was meant, and so she gave me an old one of hers. We are the same size!” she said with a wide smile.
He had noticed that, actually. In especial, above the waist. “That was perfectly acceptable. She is a wealthy women and your Cousin Charlotte Laidlaw has solicited her interest in you,” he said grimly.
“Oh, good. It is very dark green velvet,” she said earnestly.
He blenched. It would be. “Er—yes.”
“Horrible and Mina maintain I look a guy in it, and Mendoza said that no-one who wishes to be taken seriously on a horse gets about in such a rig-out. But then,” said Peg, looking soulful, “do I wish to be taken seriously on a horse?”
“Apparently not,” said Mr Beresford, taking a deep breath. “Please sit down.”
“Oh, but does not the prisoner at the bar,” said Peg, giving him a very silly look indeed, culled, it must be admitted, from her acquaintance with the behaviour of such persons as Miss Nancy Uckridge when in the presence of an attractive member of the opposite gender, “generally stand?”
“Sit down, Miss Buffitt!”
Peg sat, looking very meek.
“Do not dare to attempt any sort of prevarication,” he said through his teeth. “I have been to Greenstreet’s, and seen both damned pictures.”
Peg had a fair idea that this must be why he was looking so furious, though on receiving the summons she had been afraid that perhaps he was going to be stupid enough to obey Pa’s ridiculous orders, and make her an offer in form, the which of course she would have spurned.
“Oh, yes?” she said airily. “Good, are they not? Though of course the Classical one is very silly.”
“It is both silly and indelicate,” he said blightingly.
“Oh, it is not me, it is a figure—”
“From STOCK! I KNOW!” shouted Mr Beresford. “It is wholly indelicate, and calculated to make you the talk of the town, not to say, ruin both you and your sister forever!”
“Only in the eyes of silly Society, but I quite take your point, sir,” said Peg dulcetly. “It was a silly mistake. But dear Mr Greenstreet never intended to show it publicly. He assured us a very noble connoisseur would take it off his hands immediate it was done.”
His jaw sagged.
“Oh, I see your brain is whirling in speculation,” she said affably. “So did ours, I must confess. You know: ranging from the Duke of W. to—”
“No,” he croaked.
“No, well, possibly he is not an admirer of Mr Greenstreet’s,” said Peg earnestly. “Lord Rockingham is very interested in pictures, but not in schools of, so it could not be he. Mr Rowbotham told me that his brother, Sir Cedric, only collects landscapes and pictures of horses.”
Mr Beresford was forced to shut his eyes for a moment. “Miss Buffitt—”
“So then we were reduced to considering the mere gentry, for given Mr Greenstreet’s habits of exaggeration, possibly he did not literally mean a nobleman.”
“Do you mean to tell me you speculated with Bobby C.-S over who might buy that indecent travesty?” he shouted.
“No, no, dear sir: what an idea! With Anne, merely.”
He sagged.
“Mr Chegwidden, was our best guess,” concluded Miss Buffitt dulcetly.
Mr Beresford rose, audibly grinding his teeth. “That is enough! Miss Buffitt, I require an explanation of why you took it upon yourself to order Greenstreet to produce those works!”
“Well, I did not really order him at all, I just said that there was now no hindrance to his painting me.”
“That is a lie!” he shouted.
“Not positively, for you were away when I said it. Though certainly in spirit it was a lie, yes.”
“You deliberately flouted my orders!” he shouted.
“Yes,” said Peg, sticking her chin out. “I did. They were unkind and unnecessary, and you are not my guardian, and you have no right to give me any orders.”
“You stupid little imbecile, you are on course to ruin yourself and your sister!” he shouted.
Peg got up, looking defiant. “Pooh. Mr Bobby was horrified by that silly thing, if you must know. Mr Greenstreet had told us that it would be Classical in inspiration but that Anne and I would be fully clad. Apparently his genius carried him away. I was going to ask him to repaint it, but now I shall not bother.” She went over to the door, her chin in the air.
Mr Beresford rushed round his desk and grasped her arm. “Who else has seen it?”
“Oh, half London!” said Peg with an airy roll of her eyes. “Kindly unhand me.” This had no effect. “Let me go!” she said, flushing brightly.
“That was another lie, I presume,” he said bitterly. “Who, exactly?”
Scowling, Peg replied: “Only us and the Greenstreets. But very many people have seen the portrait of me with Mrs Watt’s little boy, and Mr Greenstreet has had several good offers for it. I know you do not care if he and his family starve in a garret, but I was very glad to be able to help him gain his daily bread! And let me GO!”
“You are not to do anything like that again, do you understand?” he said grimly, shaking her arm.
“Ow! Don’t do that! The whole thing was ridiculous!” said Peg breathlessly.
“And could very easily have ruined you! What the Devil are you in London for, if all you do is try to ruin yourself?” he said angrily, releasing her.
Peg wrenched the door open. “Possibly to meet a man who will not accuse me of lying before he has the FACTS!”
“I didn’t— Oh, the Hell with it,” he said tiredly as she ran out.
Next chapter:
https://pegbuffitt-aregencynovel.blogspot.com/2023/05/another-miss-buffitt.html
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